


Midnight Hours

by GarGoyl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Humor, M/M, Magic, Police, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarGoyl/pseuds/GarGoyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon getting a transfer from Paris to New York, police detective Francis Bonnefoy is partnered with a brilliant but fairly odd Englishman, who instantly annoys, confuses and enchants him. But detective Arthur Kirkland is a man with a dark secret and soon to be something else too… Crime, magic, FRUK smut and the occasional load of crack.  I don’t own Hetalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

**A/N – Hey! So, I just had this new FRUK plot popping into my mind all the sudden so I had to write it. Hope you guys enjoy my latest sinister creation and as you may already know, I have a reason for calling them like that…so here it is! Also, there is a bit of explaining at the end.**  

* * *

 

“Why don’t you want to use a safe word?” the young man asked, holding his head in his hand and looking rather bored.

The green-eyed blond sprawled onto the bed was still panting slightly, staring at the ceiling. The bonds were beginning to put a strain on his shoulders and he really wished he didn’t have to have his wrists tied up like this, but then again he knew he wasn’t strong enough not to struggle through the procedure. It was simply _too intense_.

“Because it’s… ridiculous!” he said at last, tongue darting out to lick the chapped lips. “It’s not like I’m doing this for pleasure, and besides, it’s… oh, bollocks, it’s no use, untie me.”

The brunette girl leaned over quickly, severing the silk ribbons holding the Englishman’s wrists captive with a small knife. Arthur sat up with some effort, still breathing hard as he pulled his unbuttoned shirt together, and buried his face in his hands. He had seen nothing, nothing! Could it have been that _the gift_ was simply going to shit?

“Do you not understand? If I were to have a safe word – ignoring how bloody _BDSM_ that sounds – the restraints would be useless! Because I would just use the safe word when it becomes too much and then I would never get to see anything!” he grumbled. “I can only see things when I’m pushed over the limit!”

He fell backwards on the bed as the boy moved to hover over him, having Arthur relax against the mattress, his head resting in the other sibling’s lap.

“Whatever you say, young master… You know, our other _clients_ don’t have visions when we do this to them, they just feel good, or at least they think they do… ,” the girl said, running long fingers through his unruly blonde bangs.

“Yep,” her brother confirmed, “You’re the only one doing it for your job. And if it’s so terrible, why don’t you quit that shit job anyway? You could always decide to become some psycho-poo-poo who tells people weird New Age stuff for a lot of money.”

“You know why. It’s the curse of all the men in the Kirkland family – we must take honorable jobs in service of the State and for the good of the society. Or else my pirate great-great-grandfather’s ghost will come to haunt me because I’m not spending _my_ life atoning for _his_ sins.”

“Arthur…”

“He _is real_! That time I made that fuss and got suspended he showed up at my bedroom door. Do you have any idea how bloody horrible that was?!”

The brunette had lit up a cherry-flavored cigarette and she took a long, lazy drag before settling it between Arthur’s lips. “And? What did he do? Or say?”

“Nothing. He was just standing there, with chains wrapped around his neck and the rest of his body, water dripping off his clothes, staring at me. The sodding carpet was soaked in the morning, and there were seaweeds on it!”

* * *

 

Francis was excited. He’d been worried a bit at first, because it was a big change, but now it had all turned to excitement. There was a small smile on his lips as he walked into the new headquarters of his assigned police station, briefly smoothing the lapels of his jacket as he went. His glance swept curiously over the buzzing open space and the people at the desks, receiving a few curious glances from those still nursing their morning coffees, but no one bothered to ask him anything or say hello.   

He’d been given his badge at the front desk after delivering his transfer documentation and the blond kept rubbing his thumb over the smooth steel now nested safely in his pocket as he walked towards the matted glass door which read ‘Chief Inspector’. It was open, yet Francis knocked a couple of times politely before poking his head in. His eyes fell on a large, neatly arranged desk with a small plaque sitting on one end.

_Alfred F. Jones._

So, Mr. Jones it was, he mentally repeated. A blond man, rather on the petite side and donning a pale blue uniform was standing with his back on the door, rummaging through some drawers. 

“Bon jou-… Tch! Um… Hello?”

The man turned abruptly but gracefully, emerald eyes giving the Frenchman an once-over before he blinked, expectant. “Yes?”

“Mr. Jones? It’s great to finally meet you, honestly I-“

Francis had taken a step forward, hand extended, but halfway through the sentence he got the feeling, upon reading the slight confusion on the other’s face, that he’d made a goof. After all, the Chief Inspector would have worn a suit at work, not an officer uniform, so this little fellow most likely wasn’t him. _Merde!_

“Feliks Lukasiewicz, nice to meet you too,” the smaller blond replied eventually, reaching out in turn and offering a soft handshake. “Boss is like totally not here now, but I take it you’re the new detective, yes?” He hurriedly leafed through the stack of papers in his arms in search of something, then looked up relieved. “Detective Bonnefoy, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Boss won’t be showing until later today, but I’m supposed to help you settle in,” Feliks said, motioning for the newcomer to follow him out of the office. “I am his secretary and he totally trusts me to handle this. So, it must be quite the big change to move from Paris to the States, huh? Although I heard that like many people signed up for the exchange programme…”

Francis struggled to keep up with the secretary’s rant and quick stride, getting slightly confused by the information overload (apparently Feliks knew _everything_ about _everyone_ and it was somehow part of his first day orientation to get to know it as well), until they arrived in front of a remote office with no inscription on the door.

Feliks opened it cordially, revealing a simple interior, some dusty shelves and two opposing seats placed on each side of a joint desk laden with an absolute mess of papers and files. An ugly sweater vest lay on the backrest of one of the chairs, while in one corner of said desk sat a rather expensive looking laptop, sporting a ‘painful’ crack in the lid.

“So, like, this is your new office, detective Bonnefoy,” the officer stated, clapping his hands together. “I totally hope you like it and you’ll be sharing it with your new partner. I’ll see right away that you get a computer of your own, but for now there’s only the one over there... and detective Kirkland trashed it last week.”

“I see...” The blue-eyed blond moved into the room, still looking around although there wasn’t much to see (more like damage to be assessed) and tried to lift the window – some fresh air would have been nice for a change. It didn’t budge. “Anyway, Feliks,” Francis turned away from the troublesome window, having decided to insist upon it later, “I was wondering if you could tell me a few things about my partner, detective... Kirk-land, was it?” Since the man had not been mentioned before, he mentally noted.

Officer Lukasiewicz scratched his head, as if pondering where to start. “Well, he’s like totally weird, but in the same time everyone agrees that he’s the best investigator we have. He’s also like, a total drunkard and God-knows-what-else, so…” the smaller blond paused and walked to the desk on the ugly sweater vest side and fished something from the top drawer. “Here!”

A key was presented to Francis while the other shrugged, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “Detective, I know you’re eager to work on your first case here with us, but currently it’s Monday morning, 9:30, so your partner is probably at home, hangover or passed out under a pile of stuff, so you’ll like totally have to dig him up and drag him here before anything else. I’ll write down the address right away.” 

At first, the Frenchman though that since his English wasn’t perfect he’d somehow misunderstood the task at hand, but after it was patiently repeated by Chief Inspector Jones’s secretary the information finally sunk in and he found himself wondering if this wasn’t some sort of joke his new colleagues had planned for his first day.

“Oh, and boss says that probably this will, like, become a regular job on work days, so keep the key.”

“ _Mais_... you can’t expect me to break into the home of a man I’ve never met and... drag him out of bed or something!”

“There is, like totally no problem, that’s why boss made him leave a key here,” Feliks replied, sighing. “Just show him the badge and tell him who you are, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

* * *

 

Somehow, Francis was less than convinced that there would be ‘like totally no problem’ with that, as he was left alone in the unsightly office, absently weighing the key in his hand. His gaze fell on the abandoned sweater vest and he couldn’t help imagining the kind of man who would be wearing that – middle-aged, skinny and bony, with clouded eyes, greasy hair and reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. He knew full well the type of ‘genius’ he’d been handed over to, the kind requiring a lot of pampering and attending to in exchange for regular loads of ‘constructive criticism’. At the thought, his enthusiasm dwindled significantly, but well, it was going to be a new experience, after all.

Or maybe this was a joke, or some sort of test Chief Inspector Jones had devised, maybe they’d even planted the depressing clothing article on the seat on purpose. With that bit of hope, the blue-eyed young man made his way out, ignoring the more than few curious stares which hadn’t been there before and the barely restrained amusement behind officer Lukasiewicz’s smile.

The cab left Francis in front of a decent brownstone house and he looked around curiously, immediately noticing a fancy black Mercedes Coupe parked awkwardly on the side of the street, after having hit several trashcans. _Dieu_ , was this a tell-tale sign of his new partner’s character?  Most windows were covered by aging wooden shutters painted in a dark brown, appearing rather ominous and hostile at a first sight and the door too looked massive and unfriendly. Oh, well...

The blond sighed and fumbled with the key in the lock, eventually letting himself in after no one had answered the doorbell in the past five minutes (Feliks had told him it would surely be a waste of time, but he’d meant to do the right thing anyway). The parlour was dark, but it opened into large drawing rooms on each side a bit further away, the space nevertheless cramped with heavy, ancient looking furniture and looking utterly deserted. Given that the man was apparently British, Francis suddenly found himself thinking, after a brief inspection, that the inside of the house looked like a Victorian mansion.

A _haunted_ Victorian mansion.  

**A/N – I know the first part is confusing as hell, but I kept it that way for a reason which will be revealed later on. Also, the story will for the most part be written from Francis’ point of view (which is entirely new to me, by the way, but I’m willing to give it a try).  Anyway, I know the first chapter isn’t much, but I promise there will be plenty of action (of all kinds ;)) as well as some serious magic because let’s face it, life without the flying mint bunny is bloody meaningless… just kidding, no flying mint bunnies. So maybe let me know what you think, because I love comments as much as goblins love gold and they’re a great motivational factor ;)**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

**A/N – Hello everyone! I must say that I was SO happy with all the unexpected comments, kudos and subs for the first chapter, it totally makes my day to see my stuff is appreciated! So a big thank you to all of you wonderful people! Anyway, today I got a bit more free time than usual so here it is, an early update!**

_Sylvia – OC Transylvania_

* * *

 

Francis advanced cautiously out of the parlor and wandered into one of the drawing rooms, taking in his surroundings. Faint light filtered in through the shutters, giving the place an eerie appearance. Surprisingly, in the middle of the ancient looking mess he was able to spot a plasma TV, but it was about the only trace of modern inhabitation. Weird as hell, at any rate!

Nervously tugging at his low pony tail, the young detective turned around, intend on heading for the stairs, but instead stumbled backwards, barely fighting back a yelp. A brunette girl wearing a black lace Goth maid uniform was standing in the doorway, observing him blankly.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Whoa, _m-mademoiselle_ , I didn’t see you there!” One of his hands shot towards his pocket and pulled out the badge, holding his other up. “I’m with the police, see? You’ve nothing to be afraid of, I was just looking for Mr. Kirkland,” he explained hurriedly.

Not that the creepy maid looked awfully scared. She shrugged indifferently. “Check upstairs, I haven’t gotten there yet,” she said, motioning for the large garbage bag in her hand, which was already full, before walking away. 

Francis decided to momentarily ignore the chill running down his spine after the peculiar encounter (for a fleeting moment he’d been under the impression that the girl’s dark brown eyes had a reddish hue, striking against her somewhat unnatural pallor) and proceeded up the stairs.

He made his way through the first open door he stumbled upon, which happened to be a bedroom. More mess met him there – a stack of books and magazines which had apparently toppled over, discarded clothing, a pizza box, beer cans and various other stuff. A sudden movement amidst it startled the detective – who found himself tense enough as it was – and made him instinctively retreat into the adjacent bathroom through the open door.

Bad idea, because it turned out he’d actually barged in on someone – a blond-haired youth was sitting in the bathtub with his knees held to his chest and forehead resting against them, appearing to be dozing. Without his will the Frenchman was left staring, taking in what was visible of the naked form - cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth, damp short hairs sticking to the gracious nape of his neck, slender but still muscular arms and the few gleaming drops of watering lingering on the pale skin of his arched back.

“ _Pas mauvais…_ ” he muttered under his breath.

“Sylvia?” the young man called suddenly, without lifting his head.

“Yes, young master?” came the voice from below. Apparently the creepy maid had extremely sharp hearing or something…

“Why is there a weird Frenchman in my bathroom?”

Francis gasped and pulled back, horribly embarrassed (but seriously, who bathed with their door open?) as the other looked up at last, green, cat-like eyes framed by thick eyebrows and choppy blonde bangs giving him a disdainful once-over.  “Oh, pardon my intrusion! I… I was looking for your father,” he stuttered, retreating back into the bedroom. “I am detective Francis Bonnefoy, I am his new partner, you know, at work….” 

He stared again at the impressive pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, just as something fleetingly rubbed against his foot, and wondered if by any chance the old drunkard was passed out underneath it. Hard to say. How had Feliks put it? _‘You’ll like totally have to dig him up…’ Merde,_ he thought, leaning over the pile inquisitively.

“What are you doing?”

The young man was standing in the doorway now, wrapped in an oversized bathrobe, while the small white-and-brown Scottish fold cat in his arms was throwing Francis a hostile glare.

“Like I said, I’m looking for your fa-“

“ _I_ am detective Kirkland, in case you were wondering. Arthur Kirkland,” the smaller blond said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “And my father doesn’t live here, good God…”

Francis’s gaze traveled perplexed from the (quite attractive, he mentally noted again) young man standing in front of him to the brown tweed suit placed on a coat hanger on the wardrobe door, the sight of which was enough to make his stomach cringe. It must have been the ugliest suit in the fucking history of ugly suits.

“Again, my apologies. I just got into the office this morning and was given the key…”

“So you met Alfred F. Jones the Third, then,” the Englishman deduced, putting the cat down and opening the wardrobe after tossing the suit out of the way.

“The Third? And no, actually his assistant showed me around and stuff,” Francis replied, politely turning around and walking up to the open window to light up a cigarette. Only then it occurred to him that he should have stepped out of the room to give the other some privacy as he got dressed, but he’d been in shock and now it was too late. “But I guess that sounds imposing, ‘the Third’, _non_?”

 “It sounds refurbished,” Kirkland stated dryly.

The Frenchman scowled, adding ‘insufferably British’ to ‘good looks wasted on terrible taste in clothing’ in the mental notes he was making regarding his new work partner. Right then he noticed that outside a man in evening clothes was trying to pick the door of the black Mercedes Coupe. “Oi! You there!” he shouted, leaning over the sill, but the man ignored him.

“Hey, Bonnefoy, don’t throw yourself off the window from the first day, alright? Not to mention this is only the first floor,” the other pointed from behind him with a snort.

“Some guy in a tuxedo is trying to break into your car, _mon ami_ ,” the blue-eyed blond retorted.

“That’s my distinguished neighbor, Mr. Edelstein, and it’s _his_ car. He must have dropped his keys in the sewer again. But seriously now, what sort of detective are you if you can’t make a simple deduction? It should have _dawned_ on you that I can’t possibly afford a Mercedes Coupe from a policeman salary…”

Francis blinked, struck in full by the offensive comment and forced to take a deep breath. “I genuinely didn’t think someone could afford such a big house from a policeman salary either,” he said, turning around and abandoning the sight of the dark-haired man who was now yelling something hysterically into his phone while kicking the front tyres.

Kirkland had thankfully finished getting dressed ( _Dieu_ , he was actually wearing that suit!) and mumbled something about his uncle having bought ‘all this rubbish incredibly cheaply’ as he walked out of the room. The blue-eyed blond could do nothing but shrug and follow, nearly tripping on the cat as it pushed past his feet in pursuit of its master.  They descended downstairs and the Englishman took a detour through the kitchen to get something to eat, while Francis checked his watch and noticed it was _only_ 11:00…

“I believe you’ve already met Sylvia, my maid,” the smaller blond said as he came back munching on a scone and brushing off crumbs and some cat hair off the lapels of his suit jacket, said girl in tow. “Well, I’ll be going now, don’t forget to brush Iggy,” he instructed.

Right, a maid who called him ‘young master’, even if there wasn’t any _other_ master in the house. Perverted too, then, Francis added to the list.

* * *

 

It turned out that Kirkland didn’t own a car at all, so there was another cab drive, then going back to their shared office, during which time Francis had the opportunity to add even more things to his inner list regarding his new partner: disagreeable (he had suggested they help poor Mr. Edelstein with the car, but the Englishman had bluntly stated that the man was ‘beyond help’), tight-fisted (he wouldn’t leave the cab driver a tip) and extremely rude (he successfully insulted at least three people in the station on their way to the office). Such that it was almost a relief when the door of their cramped, dusty office was finally closed behind them.

“So… this is it,” the blue-eyed blond said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What now?”

The other detective plopped down in his seat, swept the scattered papers from the desk aside into a big pile and pressed the start button on his laptop - which was surprisingly still functional - shrugging. “Jones will set us up with a new assignment, I heard,” he muttered. “He’ll probably show up as soon as the hamburger stand across the street opens and he gets his fix…”

Then Kirkland proceeded to ignore him, while Francis picked up some safety instructions from the table and pretended to read them as he waited. He couldn’t help peeking from time to time though, because there was something about the Englishman he found intriguing, even if he was unable to put his finger on it. Maybe it had been that first sight, of the man’s naked and quite delectable body (at least the bits he’d seen), or maybe there was something about his vibe… at any rate fully compensated by his thoroughly unpleasant character.

But then the smaller blond loosened his tie as he was staring at the screen, stretching his neck and raising his hand to rub it, biting his lip as he did and Francis quickly averted his gaze, hoping he hadn’t been caught looking. There was an almost unnoticeable bruise looking suspiciously like a bite mark on the side of his neck just below the collar line and, as his shirt sleeve slid down, it turned out there was one on his wrist as well, appearing to be the result of a… binding of sorts. The Frenchman let his gaze wander around the room in desperate hope of a distraction of sorts to keep _certain_ thoughts and images from flooding his mind.       

Fortunately for him – because his eyes kept returning to the newly found point of interest against his will – the door was slammed open and a bespectacled blond donning a dashing vintage bomber jacket over a pearly grey Zegna suit barged in, flashing a one million dollars smile.

“Bon’jour, yo!” he greeted loudly and effectively butchering the word with his accent. “Welcome, detective Bonnefoy! Chief Inspector Alfred F. Jones,” he introduced himself, reaching out to shake Francis’s hand.

“ _The Third_ …” Kirkland added as an afterthought, not bothering to look up.

“Ah well, detective,” the Chief Inspector (who by the way seemed to be awfully young for the position) said gritting his teeth in annoyance oh-so-slightly, “I see you successfully managed to retrieve your new partner from whatever bottomless pit he’d fallen into this time… But don’t worry, Artie’s really not as bad as he seems, heh. He’s far, far worse.”

In reply Francis laughed lightly, deciding to take it as a joke. “Right… But no, it was great meeting you all! And officer Lukasiewicz told me a lot about everyone as well as helping me with the orientation, I felt very welcome indeed.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Say, detective, are you all set already? Got a place to stay and everything?” the bespectacled blond asked all the sudden.

Francis shrugged, mustering a small smile. “ _Non_ , well I have a room at the hotel for now… I will have to look for something a bit more permanent… Didn’t have the time yet, but don’t worry-”

Jones nodded, thoughtful. “Well, why don’t you move in with Artie? He’s got plenty of space, a maid too,” he offered, out of the blue. “You could share the expenses and also make sure he shows up and stuff, so as long as you’re not allergic to cats, or to Brits, heh, sounds like a great idea, right?” he said, walking up behind said Brit and placing his hands on his shoulders.

The Frenchman blinked, dumbstruck at first, then struggling to figure out whether the Chief Inspector was joking, or he was an absolute idiot with no respect for people, or there was some sort of war going on between him and Kirkland and this was an (absolutely fucked up) way of getting back at the detective.

“ _Mais_ I-I don’t… _je pense que_ … I mean to say I think…”

“Artie’s okay with it, right Artie?”

Kirkland nodded once, thick eyebrows raised. “Absolutely. And I promise not to take too long before popping the question either,” he said ironically. “I’m sure I have a diamond ring here somewhere…” 

 

**Dictionary : Pas mauvais – Not Bad**

**A/N – I have to explain a little something – normally I don’t introduce OCs in my stories unless it’s for a very good reason and this time I chose Transylvania on purpose (you’ll see why a bit later on). Also, I am a hardcore cat fan and England’s Scottish fold is just too sweet. And yes, I do believe clothes are important to Francis! Anyway, let me know what you think or whether you have any questions I’d be able to answer (without major spoilers of course) because I love hearing from you and comments inspire me like nothing else ;)**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

**A/N – Hello everyone! Thanks so much for the feedback, it really means a lot to me hearing from you guys and I couldn’t be happier that you actually like this absolute… _thing_. Anyway, without further ado, here’s today’s update!**

* * *

 

_Victoria Mancham - Seychelles_

Francis didn’t really have time to process the fact that he’d been just set up – whether he liked it or not - with a new and potentially troublesome (in more than one way) roommate, because the Chief Inspector had him hastily dragged outside the office while briefly explaining that there was another very important someone he had to meet next. Kirkland was unceremoniously left behind, not that he seemed to mind, and Jones led the way down the corridor, making some small talk about the quality of coffee available in the kitchenette.

He knocked briefly at a closed door, before opening it and revealing a dark office, very little light filtering in through the blinds.

“Yo, Ivan, dude, gotta let some light in here, this place kinda gives off a bad vibe,” the Chief Inspector grumbled, advancing into the room and searching for the light switch. The flickering light bulb revealed a solid man sitting behind a large desk and typing something on a laptop. He looked up and his violet eyes blinked owlishly, assessing the newcomers curiously. Francis noted that he was wearing a woolen scarf, despite the warm weather, but he figured it must have been some sort of fashion-statement accessory, judging by the way it was carefully arranged around his neck.  

“Chief detective Ivan Braginski,” Jones said, motioning towards the man and the latter (apparently a Russian) finally stood up. “This is our latest addition, detective Francis Bonnefoy, just transferred from Paris.”

The Frenchman nearly flinched as he was delivered a bone-crushing handshake along with a wide smile and some heavily accented greeting.”It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he replied.

They were invited to settle into the seats opposite the desk and the Chief Inspector informed him that from then onwards he and Kirkland would be working under Braginski’s direct command, since as a result of current restructurings the Chief detective was to take up more assignments. The Russian gave him the impression of a meticulous man who took his job very seriously, but in the same time he was oddly soft-spoken for such a massive fellow people would have normally thought of as menacing. 

“Well, Francis, I don’t know how to put this so that it doesn’t sound weird or anything, so I’ll just say it plainly and I can only hope you have a very open mind, because it’s kinda important in this case,” Jones suddenly said, pulling the other from his previous observations. It sounded a tad ominous so he wondered what this was about.

“I have to openly ask you if you are devout or superstitious, da,” Braginski intervened gently.

Francis shrugged, not really knowing the right answer to that. “ _Non_ , not superstitious, but I am somewhat devout, I think…”

“Actually, Francis – I can call you Francis, da? – we do not mean to be intrusive in regard to personal beliefs, but we are hoping that you’ll be able to keep an open mind as to some of the cases we’re investigating here on occasion,” the Russian explained with a small smile. “Cases involving _magic_.”

Magic? As in… voodoo doll crimes? Harry Potter fans gone haywire? Satan worshippers? Admittedly, whatever it was, it was certainly a handful to take in all the sudden. The Frenchman blinked, deep down still a bit disbelieving even if everything else about his new job that he’d thought to be a joke at first in fact had turned out not to be.

“Magic… right… Well, I… I can assure you that I’ll try to keep an open mind about it if it’s needed…” His gaze trailed from Braginski to the Chief Inspector somewhat hesitantly, but they both looked serious enough to leave no room for doubt. “But I must confess that I have no knowledge or experience in that department…”

“That’s not a problem, Ivan here can get you covered on the basics,” Jones intervened, “not like we’re experts anyway. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time for that, we don’t have any such cases for the time being and we don’t get them very often either,” he reassured. “But I just wanted to get this over with from the beginning, you know, give you some time to process the stuff, can’t have you like totally freak out when it actually happens.”  

Francis nodded. He supposed it was fair to at least be given a warning, at any rate this was probably going to be one hell of an experience.

“Also, there was something else Ivan and I wanted to talk to you about, in private. It’s more like a… bit of a personal request. The thing is we would like you to keep an eye on Artie. We’re slightly concerned that he might be using… a _stimulant_ of sorts to aid in his deduction process. It might sound weird but trust me, it’s been done before. And we’re not objecting per say, because he is yielding results, but obviously we care for what happens to people here so just to be on the safe side we would like to know if something is going and what, you know?”  

The Frenchman flinched inwardly – it sure looked like the oddities were not over yet. “Stimulant…?” The blond cleared his throat, awkwardly, shifting in his seat. “Well, earlier today officer Lukasiewicz mentioned that he… that detective Kirkland is… has somewhat of a drinking habit?”

Braginski sighed. “That’s what some people assume, however…  What I mean to say is that I’ve seen my share of drunkards and they are _hardly_ ever sober. But Arthur, he’s been seen in trance-like states on occasion, but he’s never been anything but sober at work, or at least seems to recover from those states very quickly, which is highly unusual. So, while I’m sure he drinks every now and then, that’s not the only thing, we suspect there might be more to it.”

 Francis took a deep breath, nodding, while inwardly he wrapped it up – it was ‘officially’ part of his new job description to babysit Arthur Kirkland and discreetly investigate what the apparently brilliant but quite troublesome Englishman was up to. It was going to be one hell of a challenge, luckily he rather enjoyed challenges. 

* * *

 

He returned to the office a while later, with a stack of books on magic Braginski had kindly provided. Until something to do came up, he was supposed to study them. To his pleasant surprise, a new laptop had already been installed in front of his seat, along with a note with the password and settings, and most of the mess on the desk was gone. He noticed a young woman in a tight pencil skirt and stylish denim jacket leaning over Kirkland’s shoulder as he was showing her something on the screen of his computer. Her luscious black hair was swept back in a simple pony tail and she had very little makeup – just a bit of peachy blush on her tanned cheeks and some cherry lip gloss. She was very pretty regardless and Francis felt a strange sting upon seeing her small hand resting casually on the other detective’s shoulder.

“Let me guess, Jones took you aside to tell you rubbish about me,” the smaller blond said, looking up, the statement breaking his train of thought.

“ _Non_ , he introduced me to Chief detective Braginski and I was given some books on _magic_ to read,” the blue-eyed man said, hoping his face wasn’t betraying anything. “Do you… believe in this stuff?”

“I personally think it’s a load of bollocks, but that’s just me, what do I know?” Kirkland replied with a snort. “Anyway, meet our assigned intern, Victoria Mancham,” he said, motioning to the young woman, who offered a wide smile. “Victoria, this is detective Francis Bonnefoy.”

 “Nice to meet you, detective,” the intern said, reaching out boldly, but Francis caught her slight stuttering, noticing that she was younger than he’d thought initially. He hoped that Kirkland wasn’t being a jerk with her too, because she appeared to be a really sweet girl.

“So what was it? I’m curious as to what he said to _you_ ,” the Englishman insisted, after Victoria left taking some more papers with her.”For example, he told Victoria that I’m screwing my underage maid, but probably he wouldn’t expect that to have the same effect on you as it should have had on her, so it must have been something else.”

Right, so admittedly Kirkland was observant, so Francis knew he would have to say _something_. “Um… he mentioned something along the lines of you having a difficult and unpredictable temper…”

The other detective bit his lower lip, secretly amused and suddenly appearing completely different than the grumpy, passive-aggressive demeanor from before. He was almost… cute and the Frenchman barely held back a smile as he eyed his new stack of books. Was a _stimulant_ of sorts causing him weird mood swings, by any chance? Interesting… Clearly, there were a lot of odd things about his new job, but he had a strange feeling that somehow it was all going to be worth it.

“Right, so the underage maid I’m screwing said that your room will be ready by Friday,” Kirkland informed him dryly, checking his phone and scrolling down the screen.

It certainly was going to be a long first week.

**A/N – Hell yes, poor Francis might have gotten himself into much more ‘excitement’ than he was expecting and I’m not going to make things easy for him ;) Also, there is a very good reason why Arthur claims magic is supposedly ‘bollocks’, trust me. Anyway, this again wasn’t much of a chapter, but I promise a ‘sensitive’ subject next time (or should I say sensitive kink?), so stay tuned and don’t forget to let me know what you think, because comments are my poison of choice ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

A/N – Hello everyone! As promised, this time I’m making up to you for the short and relatively uninteresting last chapter.

**_Important disclaimer_** \- Please be advised that this chapter will introduce a potentially sensitive topic – which I found in another fic and subsequently researched, having found it to have potential plot-wise – namely what is known as ‘domestic discipline’ (DD). DD is (in my view) a sensitive subject not because it’s a kink as some may believe, but because it’s actually not, apparently it represents a comprehensive and quite diverse rule-based lifestyle with active supporters (who I by no means wish to offend with my work) and currently is a controversial topic. If you want to know more, there are plenty of resources online to read up from. Also, bear in mind that while it is used for plot purposes in a negative and very possibly extreme context, as well as to create tension between the main characters and said characters will express their views on it based on their contextual understanding, this is not meant to express any of my personal opinions or to pass any sort of judgment. I felt the need to put this lengthy disclaimer here, but if you find yourself still offended by this, I’m sorry and… don’t read!   

* * *

 

The French detective felt somewhat uneasy as he carried his trolley travel bag inside the grim-looking brownstone the following Saturday. It was around noon, because he’d thought he shouldn’t inconvenience his host by showing up too early – he was sure that Kirkland slept in during weekends, all the more since he seemed to do the same on most work days as well.

He’d let himself in using the key he’d gotten on his first day at the new job, as instructed, since in fact the Englishman hadn’t even bothered to let him know whether he’d be home when he arrived. The maid was supposed to be though – she was also working on Saturdays for double the daily pay – and she would show him his room and everything.

Kirkland’s Scottish fold – Iggy, if he remembered right - met him in the parlor and rubbed its fluffy tail against his leg, prompting to be picked up and petted. Well, at least _someone_ in the household wasn’t openly hostile, he thought stooping to collect the cat and treading his fingers through the soft fur, in the same time scrunching up his nose as an odd smell wafted from the kitchen.

“Arthur, please remember that you have a guest today, so let me make something edible for lunch-“

“Bollocks! This is perfectly fine!” came his partner’s voice from said kitchen.

“This black smudge…”

“It’s _curry_!”

“It’s a weapon of mass destruction. “

Hurried steps resounded and the brunette girl he’d met before showed up, her sensual, plump red lips curled into a wide smile on her sheet-white face. She was donning a buttoned up black dress with a stark white apron over it, which added to the overall creepiness of her appearance.  And no, there was no mistake this time – her eyes were _red,_ a deep, profoundly disturbing shade of dark cherry.

“Hello, _mademoiselle_ Sylvia,” he greeted in a shaky voice, clutching at the cat which was happily clawing at his lapels and secretly wondering whether by any chance Arthur Kirkland and his maid from Hell weren’t actually planning to cook _him_ for lunch. Maybe Jones had not meant to say ‘underage’ when referring to her, probably he’d wanted to say _undead_.

“Hello, detective,” she replied softly, still smiling, but before Francis could ponder further on the alluring-disturbing tone in which those two simple words had left her lips, Kirkland popped up behind her with a flustered expression, mumbling an unintelligible greeting in turn. He too was wearing an apron over his shirt, only it was clearly used (or misused, rather).

“Iggy seems to like you now,” its master noticed, snorting lightly. “Fickle, like all women…”

“Oh, it’s a ‘she’?”

“Yes. Here, let me take this for you,” Arthur offered uncharacteristically, grabbing the Frenchman’s luggage and heading up the stairs.

Francis followed closely and somewhat hurriedly, because it would have been rude to lag behind and because he really didn’t want to be left alone with the ghoul housekeeper any moment longer.

“Right, I’ll be in the kitchen to see to lunch, let me know if you need anything, young master,” the brunette said before wheeling around and thankfully disappearing from view.

The Englishman led the way to the door opposite his own, at the other end of the first floor hallway, while muttering something about needing to stop being so harshly criticized when he was really making an effort.

“Arthur… um… I don’t mean to sound impolite, but your maid has… red eyes…” Francis stuttered unconvincingly – perhaps he should really have kept that little observation to himself instead of pointing it out like that, out of the blue.

The smaller blond turned and looked up at him with a curious expression for a brief moment, before shrugging. “So does Marilyn Manson,” he replied dryly. “Or at least he had when I was in highschool…”

Right. Marilyn Manson.

* * *

 

Francis noted for further reference than he probably shouldn’t, at any given moment and under any circumstances, say that things couldn’t get any weirder that that. Sky was the limit, apparently, but somehow, he was experiencing a sort of thrilling which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Definitely, he told himself upon observing the Englishman, beautiful but hideously dressed in some old dress pants and a creased white shirt under the square patterned apron.  

Kirkland opened the door, revealing a spacious bedroom similar to his own, clean and tidy ( _un_ -like his own) and equipped with an inviting king sized bed. The cat struggled a bit in his arms and the blue-eyed blond let it down, the Scottish fold darting into the room and jumping straight onto the fresh sheets. 

“It looks very good, thank you!” he said, looking around in awe and noticing there was an adjacent bathroom as well. “It’s… really spacious and comfortable.”  With the corner of his eye he thought he saw the other detective smile briefly - a wicked smirk which brought out dimples in his cheeks - but apparently it was just an impression.

“You’re sure everything’s to your taste? I suppose I could give you a blowjob if you want.”

Francis froze, eyes widening. “ _C-Comment_?” he stuttered, turning around slowly to look at the smaller blond, to his surprise being met with the usual blunt expression.

“I said I could give it a paintjob if you want,” Arthur said, fingering the slightly chipped wood of the door demonstratively. “What? I’m really good at it, done it on the bathroom door as well,” he added innocently, eyebrows raised.

The Frenchman gulped, momentarily unable to shake off the mental image of Kirkland getting down on his knees in front of him and undoing his jeans zipper with those pearly-white teeth. And then… _non, non, merde_ , he really couldn’t think of that now, it was wrong, very wrong! But had he really misheard the other’s words as a result of this highly inopportune crush? As opposed to Kirkland having a creepy-groundhogging flirting technique… (not that he would have awfully minded).

* * *

 

The rest of the day (and the weekend) had passed rather uneventful – the maid had prepared a surprisingly delicious stew for lunch before leaving, after which Kirkland too had made himself scarce without giving any explanations. Francis had been thus left on his own for Saturday afternoon and evening, as well as for the most part of Sunday, with only the TV and Braginski’s magic books as company.

* * *

 

It was Monday morning and Francis was still stuck with nothing useful to do than leaf through the magic stack and occasionally get worried at what he was reading, while Arthur was explaining to Victoria how to organize some documents on the internal server, when the Chief Detective Ivan Braginski walked into their office unexpectedly. 

“Looks like I have a job for you two, da,” he announced neutrally, holding up a piece of paper. “Suspected murder. Here’s the address and you’d better hurry, because I told the operational team you’d be on your way a.s.a.p,” the Russian added, throwing some car keys in Francis’s general direction. 

“You’re driving,” Kirkland said as a matter-of-fact as soon as Braginski disappeared, picking his suit jacket from the back of his chair and throwing it on without bothering to adjust the collar.

The patrol Ford Crown which had been assigned to them had definitely seen better days, but the Frenchman figured it was fine for their purpose. And at least he was allowed to drive, which was somewhat of a relief – not because he didn’t trust his partner’s driving skills per say, but because it gave him some sense of control over what was going on. That being said, he decided to tease the other for a bit on the subject.

“You know, Arthur, Chief Inspector Jones did not make any comments about your driving,” he said casually, keeping his eyes on the road.

 The smaller blond snorted. “I bet, he usually finds juicier subjects to hammer people’s reputation with. Regardless, don’t get the wrong impression and assume that I actually care about what he says. But well, we must all tread carefully because his ‘daddy’ is a senator – in case you were wondering how he landed the job in the first place – and if we make him angry we’re in for a shit storm…”

 “Huh. I for one I am always faithful to the phrase ‘There is an explanation for everything’, and that explains it, _n’est ce pas_?”

“Indeed.”

“I never got to ask… and maybe, if you don’t want to answer, I won’t mind, but… what happened to your previous partner? I mean, did he…?” Francis found that he didn’t have the heart to fully ask ‘did he die?’.

Kirkland gave him that curious look again, the one he’d had when the Frenchman had pointed out that his maid had red eyes.  It was admittedly unsettling, even if he found himself almost mesmerized by those light green, catlike eyes which seemed to seek to see into his very soul. Hopefully not seek to _devour_ his soul as well...

“He got married and retired from the police work, his wife decided it was too dangerous,” the other detective said at last. “So you can say he died in a way, yes. Now he’s got a job with some obscure private eye office.”

The rest of the ride was silent and soon they arrived in a pleasant residential neighborhood, with cozy and unassuming wooden houses, small green lawns and children riding bicycles on the side-walk or playing ball in the well-kept yards. The only things out of place in this little picture-perfect universe were the two police cars and the ambulance parked in front of one of the houses and the tell-tale yellow tape on the open door.

Francis parked smoothly and they both stepped out of the car, a young officer waiting nearby walking up to meet them halfway to the house.

“ _Bastardo_ , what took you so long?! Do you have any idea what it’s like to be stuck with that schmuck?!” the dark-haired man yelled in lieu of any other greeting, throwing the green-eyed blond an angry glare.

“Right… Lovino, this is detective Bonnefoy,” the Englishman said with a resigned sigh. “What are we looking at?”

The Italian (Francis deduced from the man’s accent) gave him a skeptical once-over while openly expressing his hope that the newcomer wasn’t as idiotic as his partner.

“Right, so Mr. Briggs over there found his wife dead in their bedroom this morning upon returning from his night shift. There’s no sign of break-in or aggression at a first sight, but the paramedics called us in because she suffocated and they say it isn’t the kind of suffocation which just occurs on its own, whatever the fuck that means,” he explained grumpily. “Also, they estimate that the approximate time of death was somewhere between 9 P.M and 10 P.M., which places it I think a little after her husband left for work last night.”

“Or a little before,” Francis stated, more to himself, as he scowled lightly.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?”   

* * *

 

Harvey Briggs was slumped on the couch, looking devastated as he pressed a crumpled handkerchief to his nose. He was a tall, solid man around forty, who worked as a guard to a local bank branch, while Angelique, the supposed victim, had been still in her early twenties and a housewife.  It turned out they’d only been married for four years.

“Mr. Briggs, do you know anyone who might have had any reason to hurt your wife?” Kirkland asked bluntly, while his partner looked around the spotless living-room. Everything was neatly arranged, with an almost obsessive precision. For some reason, Francis had a gut feeling that something suspicious was going on, something hidden in plain sight.

“No, no one!” the husband sobbed in a raspy voice, “Angelique was truly an angel, she was so kind to everyone! I can’t think of anyone who could have hurt her!” The man wiped his nose and paused when he noticed the English detective giving him a somewhat odd look. “And I _loved_ my wife, alright? We were having a happy, loving marriage!”

“Everyone says that,” the blond grumbled, his tone bordering hostility, and Francis nearly had the mind to ask him to stop harassing the poor man.

For the moment it appeared as though Kirkland was done asking questions, but then Lovino returned unexpectedly from outside and whispered something in his ear, changing his mind.

“Mr. Briggs, the nice old lady next door says that your wife never went into town and in fact barely ever left the house without you. Would you mind explaining that?”

The Frenchman perked up at the news, curiously gauging the husband’s reaction, but he was perfectly calm as he spoke.

“Like I said, detective, I loved my wife and I wanted her to be safe, that’s all.”

“Do you mean to say you were a jealous man, Mr. Briggs?” Francis cut in. After all, the late Angelique Briggs had been much younger than her spouse, so it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.

The man eyed him sternly.”No, it was simply one of our rules.”

* * *

 

It turned out that Mr. Briggs and his wife had agreed upon having a so-called ‘domestic discipline’ marriage – a concept Francis wasn’t familiar with and which struck him as odd to say the least – and there were an awful lot of rules Mrs. Briggs had to follow as part of the family life. Furthermore, when asked whether she would always stick to said rules, her husband didn’t even bat an eyelash when telling the two detectives that he used to spank his wife for even the most minor of transgressions. Of course, everything was part of the arrangement they’d both agreed to when starting their life together.

“I don’t think he did anything to cause her death,” the Frenchman said later on, as they were driving back to the station and Kirkland was sulking in the passenger seat while studying some papers Lovino’s partner – officer Carriedo – had found in Mr. Briggs’ nightstand. There were several printouts of articles and blog entries from various private forums and websites on the peculiar subject discussed earlier and Carriedo had also enclosed some notes of his own on the ‘implements’ he’d discovered in a cardboard box in the couple’s wardrobe. 

“I don’t know… What the bloody hell is ‘nonconsensual consent’?” the smaller blond asked, leafing through the pile in his lap.

“ _Je ne sais pas_ , but isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

Later on, in the office, while rummaging through Briggs’s papers, Francis discovered an excerpt from the private blog of a certain therapist of sorts, as well as a number for appointments jotted in handwriting on the side of the printed text. The blog apparently belonged to a Dr. Vash Zwingli – provider of marital counseling and applied therapy.

“He said that they were having a happy, loving marriage, yet it seems they were seeing a couple therapy practitioner? Interesting,” he observed, looking up at the Englishman who was currently checking some related website. “Maybe we should pay this gentleman a visit and ask him some questions.”

“He’s not going to tell us anything, as per the whole doctor-patient confidentiality bollocks, and even if he won’t use that, he probably would never say anything to incriminate someone actively practicing this apparently quite controversial lifestyle.”

“I know!” Victoria cut in excitedly. “The only way we can get ‘inside’ information is for us to set an appointment with this Dr. Zwingli and pretend we’re a couple to be married soon and we want to adopt this practice into our future marriage. After all, an e-mail address for appointments appears on his blog as well…” Her voice faltered a bit at the end, as her gaze trailed from one detective to the other hesitantly. “’Us’ as in… me and one of you, I guess.”

Francis cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.“Um… _Mademoiselle_ Victoria, I believe that it might not be such a good idea…” he replied. “Seeing how this thing is… how it is.”

“Bonnefoy is right,” Kirkland intervened. “Besides, it says ‘applied therapy’, so there’s no telling what could happen in there. “But it is a good idea, don’t worry. Make an online appointment, the two of us will go,” he said, watching Francis with an amused smile.

 

**A/N – Well, I hope you enjoyed today’s screwed-up chap and let me know what you think because… yeah, I love hearing from you guys, your words are my drug (that’s to put feedback addiction poetically)  ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

A/N – Hello everyone! So, it’s (high) time for a new chapter, I apologize for the delay due to hectic work and me starting a thousand things and then struggling to keep them going. Again, I will have to refer to the lengthy disclaimer I put at the beginning of the previous chapter, because this time there will be substantially more references to DD – and again, please bear in mind everything is for plot purposes, this is not meant to express any of my personal opinions or to pass any sort of judgment on the matter.  

* * *

 

“What?”

Francis still chewed on his lip and on the answer he was to give, fidgeting under the other detective’s gaze as he stared right ahead, at the road. Obviously, he wasn’t _afraid_ of what was coming, but to say he wasn’t looking forward to their appointment with Dr. Zwingli was an understatement.

“I don’t know, Arthur, are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, do you think you can do it?”

Kirkland snorted. “Don’t worry, I was raised in a very strict family so technically I had to be a bloody submissive for the first eighteen years of my life. And I faked it pretty well too for most of the time, without any major slip-ups, so I believe that I should be able to pull it off this time too.”     

The blue-eyed blond’s eyebrow shot up in surprise, he’d hardly expected the mysterious Arthur to drop that kind of information about his family, not to him and certainly not so soon after the two of them had met. If anything, it made him even more nervous. Francis had enjoyed quite a lot of freedom growing up, but later on in his job he’d had the opportunity to make some observations as to what a repressed childhood could do to individuals. But was that the source of the Englishman’s oddities? He wondered… The thought brought up some concern as well – wasn’t the whole thing affecting Arthur on some deep, personal and carefully concealed level?  

He turned and looked briefly at the smaller blond on the passenger seat, noticing a printout of the doctor’s blog in his lap. The logo was a drawn tree with leaves in the shape of tiny pink hearts, put together to form a big one – and for some reason he found the detail irking, like a mockery, especially when associated with Mr. Briggs and his late wife.      

“Remember Bonnefoy,” Kirkland said unexpectedly. “Whatever we hear in there, we need to look genuinely interested, not give the man a ‘what-the-fuck’ face, show disagreement or even surprise at whatever bullshit he may debit. Domestic discipline is not something we are there to research, but a concept we’re both supposedly familiar with and have previously fully agreed upon, and now we only want some further good advice on how to make it work best in our future marriage. You must act like it’s something you _believe_ in. Do you understand?”

“ _Oui_ …”

Of course he understood that not blowing their ‘cover’ would take some good pretending skills on their behalf, but suddenly the way Arthur had said those words – ‘our future marriage’ – was all he could think about as they parked the car, went up the stairs to the therapist’s office and took a seat in the waiting room. Francis’s mind kept wandering to the hypothetical image of him and the Englishman being married, especially the _sharing-the-bed_ part, while mentally pushing aside the thought of having to do most of the talking (and improvising) during the upcoming appointment.

Eventually, they were invited in and the Frenchman took a deep breath as he sat down in one of the two chairs placed in front of the doctor’s desk, glancing over at the other detective. He appeared awfully innocent all the sudden, in tweed trousers and a simple sweater vest over the white shirt, a surprisingly meek look in his light green eyes. Quite believable…

“So, “Dr. Zwingli said, after a few formal words of introduction. “I understand that you are here because you’ve chosen to commit to this lifestyle in your future together. Well, in order to be able to give you the best advice, I will have to ask you to elaborate a bit on your particular needs.”

Francis cleared his throat as the therapist eyed him expectantly. There was something about the man’s almost military posture he found rather intimidating and it put a very unpleasant kind of pressure.  

“Well, I must confess that I stumbled upon the concept by chance a while ago and… after discussing it together we found it to be the right thing for us,” he said, half-turning and offering Arthur a loving smile which was quickly reciprocated. “ _C’est a dire que…_ even though we’ve been together for more than five years now, we are ever striving for self-improvement in our relationship.”  Five years?  _Dieu_ , where had that come from? Considering his flings usually lasted one month tops…

Dr. Zwingli clasped his hands together, appearing pleased with what he was hearing.”That’s wonderful! So, Francis, what exactly would you like to improve? More specifically?” As the detective didn’t answer right away, the doctor offered some help. “I believe it’s something in Arthur’s behavior you would like to adjust?”

The blue-eyed blond gulped, knowing he would have to come up with something. Preferably something for which the Englishman wouldn’t resent him too much later, for he had the suspicion that Kirkland if provoked could hold one hell of a grudge.  

“Well, there are several things…”

“Arthur, maybe you would like to point out some of those things yourself?” Zwingli intervened. “As you know, admission of one’s faults is the first step towards correction. Of course, Francis is here to actively support you through everything, but it must begin with you,” he said gently, as if he were talking to a small child.

The other detective bit his bottom lip, glancing towards his ‘dominant partner’ in an approval-seeking manner. “Um… I stay out late after work sometimes, even though I know Francis worries so much about me. And sometimes I get drunk and I… um… say disrespectful things to him. And I am reluctant to take cooking classes, even if I’m absolutely awful in the kitchen.”

The doctor sighed. “Well, I think we can all agree that perhaps cooking classes aren’t for everyone, but the other two issues sound quite serious to me and I firmly believe you should address them without delay,” he stated, turning to the Frenchman once more.

“ _Ah oui_ … “ Francis fumbled with the papers which the smaller blond had unceremoniously shoved in his lap earlier. They had to get past the lecturing and into more serious stuff which could have helped with the investigation, he reminded himself. Eventually, he came across the page he was looking for and cleared his throat. “Actually, I read a lot about the punishments part. Here is a list of the most common: corner time, bedroom time, line writing, privilege removal, essay writing and, well, spanking. Which one would you recommend?”

“Well, I suggest you work out a system based on the set of rules I suppose you’ve already established – the ones you as Head of Household want your Taken in Hand, namely Arthur, to follow. The first step is to essentially create a scale of punishments, based on their seriousness, effectiveness and intensity, and apply them according to occurring transgressions.”  

“Privilege removal?” the smaller blond piped up shyly, his gaze trailing from the doctor to Francis and back.

“Indeed,” Zwingli said, in the same irritatingly parenting tone. “For example, some privileges of the Taken in Hand which can be removed include - but are not necessarily limited to - credit card privileges, driving, going out with friends, computer, television, phone or cosmetic privileges. My clients found that they can be quite effective.”

The Frenchman sighed at that, shaking his head a bit. “Ah, well surely for mild transgressions, you mean. But for more serious ones shouldn’t spanking be more advisable?”

The therapist rubbed his chin thoughtfully, observing Arthur so intently that the detective began to fidget nervously in his seat. “Quite so, Francis, as long as you do it the right way. Upon delivering a spanking, you must be perfectly calm and keep in mind the real purpose of your whole domestic discipline commitment, which is to help Arthur progress on the path towards righteousness and peace.”

“Ah, _bien sû_ _r_ …”

“So then, what implements have you thought of using to begin with?”

The blue-eyed blond blinked, as if pondering, while he tried to remember the stuff officer Carriedo had found in Mr. Briggs’s box. A bath brush was mentioned in the report and he’d found it rather ridiculous at the moment, but in the same time it sounded like ‘connoisseur stuff’. However, it wasn’t until he brought it up and the doctor actually produced said item from one of his desk drawers that he fully realised that it was indeed meant to be used.  

“I think it would be useful for you to give it a try, in this way I can effectively guide you through the process,” Zwingli said. “Arthur, I will ask you to stand up and bend over the backrest,” he added calmly, while motioning for the Frenchman to get to the task.

Francis knew that there was no way he could refuse to comply, yet he found himself glued to the chair, completely mortified as he eyed the long wooden bath brush – his grandmother had used to have one and once, as a child, he’d dropped the damned thing on his foot by accident. It had hurt like absolute Hell, enough to make the boy let out a foul word he’d been duly slapped for by said grandmother. 

“It’s very simple, Francis. Like a sort of golf,” the Englishman said, making the doctor tut disapprovingly.

“You see, Francis? Your hesitation is only encouraging the bad and disrespectful behavior of your Taken in Hand. But you cannot let silly scruples get in the way, not when you _know_ that this is for his own good.”

And right after saying that, without any warning, Dr. Zwingli delivered a few hard and precisely aimed swats to the other detective’s backside. Arthur gasped, in shock and probably pain too, gripping the plush seat, but managed to hold still, perfectly obedient.

“Right. As I was saying, it’s very important that the punishment be delivered in a supportive, loving manner, so after the actual spanking you are supposed to gently comfort your Taken in Hand, but without soothing the physical pain. So no bottom rubbing.”

Before he had the time to process what was going on, the green-eyed blond was sitting across his lap, nose buried in the crook of his neck as he sniffed a bit, and Francis could do nothing but wrap his arms around his lithe frame, gently rubbing his back and even pressing a few soft kisses into his hair. He almost wondered if he wasn’t by any chance overzealous, but he really didn’t mind holding Kirkland like that, or touching him in that manner. Fuck his luck that the circumstances had to be so messed up… Zwingli went on to explain several other things which were to note, but the Frenchman could no longer follow, busy as he was running his fingers through the soft, short hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck and discreetly inhaling his cologne.

“And remember, Francis, a Head of Household needs to always think about the bigger picture and the greater good when determining what course of action to take.  The correct or best decision isn’t always the easy one and is not always the one that will make everyone - especially the submissive partner - the most happy.  That isn’t what being a true Head of Household is about, and the ones that are best at putting their foot down are the ones that experience the most success in the lifestyle. So be sure to keep that in mind!”

* * *

 

“Well, now we have certainly got a glimpse into the sort of ‘happy, loving marriage’ Mr. and Mrs. Briggs were having,” Kirkland said dryly, as Francis was trying to light up a cigarette with trembling fingers. He managed eventually and took a long, calming drag while shuffling his feet on the concrete. Somehow this had been the most disturbing doctor’s appointment he’d ever had and the man hadn’t even touched him. Speaking of which…

“Arthur… I should have asked right away but… are you alright?”

 The Englishman rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Bonnefoy, I’ve taken worse beatings than this since I’ve joined the police force. But it was wrong of you to refuse to hit me, that bastard almost got suspicious…” He snorted. “Jones wouldn’t have hesitated.”

The blue-eyed blond was struck in a nearly painful manner by that statement – it was as if the other detective expected everyone to treat him badly, for some reason. Was that the Chief Inspector’s fault? Was that why he was being unpleasant with most people he had to deal with? His thoughts flew back to holding the smaller blond in his arms, soothing him with gentle touches. It had felt so… special. So much so that he genuinely hoped that Arthur hadn’t actually caught up with what was going on in his head.

“But still, the stuff we found does not prove that Mr. Briggs is guilty of his wife’s death,” he said, shaking off distracting thoughts as he got behind the wheel once more and started the engine. “I don’t see how the use of a bath brush, however disturbing, could kill someone…”

“Pfft… while I was sitting there listening to his rubbish I could think of at least three ways in which I could kill him with it,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “Do you know what really irks me about the whole thing? Consent. This is supposed to be a _consented_ lifestyle, even if we are to ignore that dubious ‘non-consensual consent’ bollocks.“

“And?”

“And in order to be genuine, consent needs a key element, which is _choice_. The choice to say ‘yes’ when you would be able to say ‘no’,” the Englishman grumbled. “But think of Mrs. Briggs – a young housewife with very little education, no job or any work experience and no close family. I am inclined to believe that her choice in the matter was rather questionable. Not to mention, I read online that many of the submissive partners in this type of relationships are financially dependent on their spouses. That is by default rather choice-limiting, wouldn’t you say? Then again, I suppose some might consider that taking a spanking every now and then from the one who pays the bills cannot be that bad, but the doctor said that every couple is different, that there are _nuances_ … That is to say, some nuances can be particularly fucked up! “ 

The Frenchman nodded. “ _Bien sur_ … we will have to look deeper into the matter…”

* * *

 

Francis really needed a break. They were heading home and he was looking forward to lounging on the couch in front of the TV with a glass of the red wine he’d recently procured, allowing himself to relax for a bit and to distance himself from the case. Of course, there was a valid point in what Kirkland was saying, but he couldn’t shake off an odd feeling that his partner was taking it personally somehow.

His plans for a quiet, lazy evening went to shit though, because soon after they arrived at the brownstone the Englishman changed his work clothes to something more casual (more casually hideous, to be precise) and left, again without offering the slightest explanation, and Francis found himself oddly compelled to follow him.

Obviously, stalking the man and basically intruding his privacy was wrong in more ways than one, he was aware of it, and yet there was simply too much mystery around Arthur waiting to be cracked, so many things the detective thought he should figure about his new partner. Or maybe it was simply the suspicion that it had something to do with the ‘stimulant’ that the other was supposedly using to aid his investigations – after all both Braginski and Chief Inspector Jones had discreetly asked him to keep an eye on Arthur, so there had to be a good reason. Mentally clinging to that particular ‘good reason’, Francis quickly followed the Englishman some two streets away – he was in luck that his object of interest hadn’t taken a cab or something – to a rather inconspicuous looking building with a café at the ground floor.

Kirkland went in and hurriedly crossed the space crammed with small tables to the back of the main room, where he slipped behind a beads curtain. The blue-eyed blond waited a bit before retracing the other’s path exactly, making his way into a dark, narrow corridor with yet more curtains – these made of heavy dark velvet - on each side. He stepped in just in time to see his new partner disappear behind one of them, towards the far end of the hallway, and sneaked after him keeping his steps as light as he could.

Francis barely dared to breathe as he moved closer, hearing hushed voices on the other side of the dark fabric. His fingers crept towards the edge with a will of their own, the detective so caught in what he was about to do that he failed entirely to realise that someone had stopped right behind him until a bony hand gripped his arm.

“If you want to watch, you have to pay,” a voice croaked, startling the Frenchman who turned abruptly, faced with the sight of an old woman dressed in black. Without much thought, he fumbled in his pockets and proceeded to place a bill into her outstretched hand, breathing in relief as she walked away without another word.

He stepped even closer, nose nearly pressed into the dark plush, while his index finger rose and made the tiniest gap, enough to allow him to see what was going on inside. And then, his breath nearly stopped.     

**A/N – I am truly evil, I know…**

   


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! Somehow, I constantly manage to add to my ficwork, despite my real job being hectic this time of year and having already enough to do, which in turn makes me delay updates… The good news is that I put together a chapter plan for this fic so that I know where it’s going, hopefully this will help in getting it updated faster. But enough tedious crap for now, enjoy the new chapter!

Warning: some blood play ahead, eh… how unexpected

_Vlad - Romania_

* * *

 

Francis’s fingers twisted helplessly into the soft velvet as all of those hideous clothes were slowly but surely stripped off the Englishman’s body, leaving the alluring expanse of pale skin bare, exposed to view. And through his peephole he could see everything that was not shielded by Arthur’s two companions – a boy and a girl, scantily clad, both extremely attractive and obviously so even with the black lace masks covering their eyes. The Frenchman did not for one moment stop to wonder how old they were, for one could see only their absolute grace and the perfection of their movements. They were talking in a whispered fashion, such that Francis could not hear, but what he saw was enough and far beyond what he’d been dreaming of lately. Sure, it was immoral to invade his work partner’s privacy in this way, but then he did not think himself an overly moral man to begin with (and a little damnation of his soul was worth it to see Arthur completely bare, stretched onto the plushy covers, his supple body taut with delightful anticipation). 

“Are you sure you want to do this now? You look worked up already…”

The green-eyed blond relaxed his shoulders against the mattress, closing his eyes wearily. “I have to. I must know if he killed her.”

“Mmmm… very well then. You know we always enjoy you, master,” the boy purred, a pale, delicate hand tracing up the detective’s torso, all the way to his pulse point. There the fine but long-nailed fingers seemed to hover over the vulnerable flesh, nearly grazing the surface. 

Behind the thick curtains, the Frenchman’s breath hitched as the girl pulled out some thick silk ribbons from the bedside drawer and diligently used them to tie up Arthur’s wrists to the bedposts. But that wasn’t all, inside each of the binds a sharp object was inserted, pressed against the skin.

“There, this should make it bad enough,” Sylvia said, sliding the cold blade of a scalpel between the silk and the flesh of one hand, while for the other she used some equally sharp scissors. “Now, if you move even the tiniest bit, you’ll hurt yourself. So try not to… master.”  

Arthur took a deep breath, pale lips parting as he exhaled softly. “I didn’t know you used such instruments in your work,” he murmured, as Vlad’s skilled tongue teasingly traced the outline of his collarbone.

“But of course,” the brunette girl replied, sharp white teeth nibbling on the Englishman’s ear. “Do you not use _cutlery_ when you eat? Besides, you wanted _more_.” She slipped smoothly behind the blond, cradling his upper torso on her lap as she bent at an impossible angle to kiss him on the mouth, sloppily, intensely, breathlessly.

Arthur gasped softly when the strawberry blond boy straddled his hips, fingers digging a bit into his lower back to make his spine arch sensually before his mouth descended onto his master’s throat. Vlad left a trail of butterfly kisses all the way up to the jaw line, finally reaching the wanted lips.

“Shall I-…?” he asked, nibbling onto his master’s bottom lip, fangs grazing but not yet breaking the skin.

“N-no, you take me this time,” the Englishman pleaded, squirming a bit. “D-do it as rough as you can, I have to… y-your teeth will not be enough…”

The incubus’s thin eyebrow arched in surprise, but he only chuckled, promptly shifting to accommodate the request. Dismounting swiftly, he pulled the other’s hips in his lap instead, such that his body was now completely exposed to the view.

On the other side of the curtain, the awed Frenchman inhaled deeply, watching as sharp, black-nailed fingers danced teasingly onto his partner’s skin, down his happy trail, and eventually closing around him in a firm grip. Arthur hissed and groaned in pain upon being taken after very only little preparation, wriggling a bit to accommodate the intrusion. The movement strained his tied arms and soon enough blood stained the silk of the bindings.

Francis saw the girl move instantly - as if her nose had picked up the scent, like a predator’s - and lean over to lick the drops of crimson oozing from the hidden wounds, her tongue carefully avoiding the sharp instruments. There was something very dark and twisted and wrong in what he was seeing, and he should have been concerned for Arthur’s safety above everything else, but he was enthralled by it. And then Arthur called _his_ name, louder than the rest of the conversation had been and clearly distinguishable, and he froze.

At first the blue-eyed blond thought in absolute horror that he’d been discovered peeking (which would have labeled him as a perverted stalker _at best_ ), but then he saw it wasn’t the case - the Englishman’s eyes were still closed, pearly white teeth digging helplessly into that lower lip, now deliciously swollen from all the biting. 

“Hahhh… yes… Francis… mmmmhhh there…” Arthur moaned again, arching up and fingers curling around the instruments placed in his binds, very possibly making his wrist wounds worse, his long, slender legs wrapped tightly around the incubus boy’s waist. But could it have been possible that he really imagined Francis inflicting that mixture of pain and pleasure onto his restrained body, holding his hips in a bruising grip as he was thrust into, agile fingers working him steadily as the other’s mouth teased his chest?

The Frenchman’s nails dug painfully into the heels of his palms as he burned with the want to touch himself over the sweet tune of his partner’s growing moans, mixed with the enthralling uttering of his own name. Yet he couldn’t move, nor tear his gaze from the unfolding scene, completely captured in its accursed rapture, already addicted to the sight and scent of a far darker sin than he’d ever tasted before.

“B-Bloody fuck…aahhhh… I-I think I’m… hah… going t-to…” the detective cried faintly after a while, chest heaving.

That was when the brunette girl literally tore through the bindings of his left hand with nothing but her bare nails, freeing his hand as the bloodied scalpel and tattered silk were hurriedly thrown aside. And Francis distinctively saw the gleam of her sharp fangs as she brought her mouth down onto the Englishman’s wrist, with a throaty, beastly growl. Then the boy leaned over and did the same to the side of Arthur’s throat, just at the pulse point, and everything went dark. 

* * *

 

_Angelique tried to speak, but no words were coming out, only short, ragged breaths as tears welled down her sheet-white cheeks. Briggs’s hand had a firm grip in her hair, pulling her relentlessly up the stairs._ _A pale hand clutched helplessly at her chest and she didn’t even have the strength to struggle, not a bit. Not that she would have ever dared to._

_Once upstairs, Briggs’s grip loosened somewhat, as his prey seemed more resigned and less willing to even silently plead for mercy and he prompted Angelique forward down the hallway. He passed the open bedroom door, muttering something as he did, leading the way instead into the bathroom._

_“Please…I-I can’t… please…”_

_But those last and only words fell on deaf ears. The man reached calmly, determinedly into the cupboard above the sink, taking out a fresh bar of soap. His expression betrayed nothing of what was to come to an unknowing eye as he awkwardly used his teeth and free hand to unwrap the lime-green piece of soap. He then opened the faucet, rinsing one end thoroughly before tugging brutally at his wife’s hair, forcing her head backwards. The glistening piece of soap was shoved into her gasping mouth and-_

Arthur registered the sharp sting of a slap delivered to his cheek, bringing him back from that frozen, immobile moment in which for Angelique Briggs the thin thread of life had snapped and time had stood still, forever. The incubi siblings had already untied him and he was now wrapped in the warm plush of the bedcovers, yet he was still shivering from the wave of horror which had washed over him, unstoppable, unforgiving.

“Arthur, you know we _love_ you. We don’t like to see you like this,” Vlad said softly.

“Have you seen?” Sylvia asked, gently caressing the blond strands partly matted with sweat. “Do you know the truth now?”

The detective sniffed, a trembling hand reaching up to wipe the moisture off his eyes. “Yes… But if I fail to get this through, I will ask you to do something for me.”

* * *

 

Francis didn’t exactly remember how he’d come to his senses, made his way out of that place, or how he’d stumbled back home and into his room. He was feeling as in a drunken daze, shaking with fatigue and body aching with unfulfilled need. As he mechanically stripped off his clothes and stepped into the bathtub, his mind was unable to process anything past the thought that he had to have Arthur Kirkland or he would go mad, Francis felt something almost akin to a physical burn, scorching him from the inside out.   

Thankfully, the cold water he allowed to run over his whole body afterwards helped clear his head and all those unexplained, horridly unsettling feelings eventually subsided into sheer weariness. The blue-eyed blond decided he’d just had a long and exceeding weird day, no doubt topped by the disturbing visit to Dr. Zwingli’s office. Soon after, he simply crawled into bed, pleased that at least the next day was Saturday and he could sleep in all he wanted.   

* * *

 

However, Francis’s rest turned out to be much shorter than he’d imagined, for at some point during the night he woke up drenched in a cold sweat and jerked upright in bed, at first not knowing what the hell was actually happening. Some very loud and positively sinister organ music was pouring into the room in a nightmarish fashion.

Rubbing off the last remnants of sleep from his eyes as he listened carefully, the Frenchman figured that the source of the noise was in the room on other side of the wall, namely their neighbor’s. He remembered his partner saying that the man’s name was Edelstein, he was Austrian and a pianist. Arthur had also mentioned that he was in his view slightly mental – which sort of explained why he played the organ in the middle of the night. He’d never done it before since Francis had moved in, so the conclusion could only be that the crazy pianist had the worst timing possible.

Just as he was fruitlessly pondering on what to do (maybe he could grab his pillow and blanket and take the couch downstairs?), some grumbled swears were heard outside in the hall, drawing closer until the door flew open and Arthur appeared in the frame with a pissed expression, his hair mussed and a loose undershirt askew over a pair of baggy pajama bottoms. He did not stop there though, instead climbing onto the bed while mumbling something like an apology and walking over the mattress (and very nearly over Francis as well) until he reached the back wall and pounded on it with his fist as hard as he could.

“YOU BLOODY FUCKER, IF YOU’RE THAT FRUSTRATED WHY CAN’T YOU JUST WANK OFF LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, PREFERABLY IN THE SILENCE OF YOUR OWN BLOODY BATHROOM?!” the Englishman screamed, emphasizing each word with a blow to the wall.

The music eventually stopped and an angry voice yelled something in German in reply.

Francis blinked, having been suddenly met with the sight of the baggy pants nearly slipping off the smaller blond’s hips, the beginning of his happy trail showing enticingly. He mused dreamily of what it would have been like to kiss that patch of skin, advancing lower and…

 “WANKER, IF YOU DON’T STOP AT ONCE I BLOODY SWEAR I’LL TELL YOUR WIFE ABOUT THAT MECHANIC YOU’RE SO DESPERATELY TRYING TO SCREW!”

A deathly silence followed the detective’s threat and Arthur smiled victoriously. “Hah! How come I didn’t think of this sooner?” The blue-eyed blond looked up and saw him watching back pensively, tongue poking the inside of his cheek before he sighed. “I’m sorry about that, Francis, and I didn’t mean to-“

But the Frenchman pulled determinedly at his hips and he dropped unceremoniously, right into his partner’s lap, meeting the other’s inquisitive stare.

“Listen, do you want to sleep-“

“Yes, of course I bloody want to sleep!”

“I really think you should stop teasing me now, _Monsieur_ Arthur…” Francis said as a matter-of-fact, drawing closer as his hands stayed put on the other’s hips.

Arthur breathed out slowly, blinking, but allowed himself to relax, making no move to pull away when Francis brushed his lips tentatively over his mouth. The Frenchman actually had a bit of a hard time processing that he was indeed doing _that_ , even as his teeth grazed and tugged gently at the smaller blond’s lower lip, coaxing him to open his mouth and give in. This was awfully wrong in more ways than he cared to think of, but when Arthur finally kissed him, nothing mattered anymore.  

 **A/N – I am HORRIBLY evil, I know…** **but more of that fun stuff next time, I promise ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

A/N – Hello everyone! I know, I am a genius at delaying things in a spectacular fashion… I suppose that is a skill too, and it’s only getting better and better as one gets older or something :) Anyway, aside from that, I’ve been constantly procrastinating and/or getting involved in other projects (have you ever had a sudden idea you just HAD to write? Yeah, that sort of thing ;)) so there, delay. Don’t think I will abandon this though – I am a freak about bringing my stuff to completion. Bah, enough ranting! Here’s the next chapter ;)

* * *

 

Francis wasted no time in deepening the kiss, that hot stir of passion from earlier relighting as he pulled the smaller blond tight against his own body, as if the other were a precious treasure he feared losing from his grip. To this added the surprise of Kirkland’s unexpected benevolence, he’d never thought the grumpy Englishman would just go along with this without a single word or gesture of protest, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Indeed, Arthur seemed to simply abandon himself to the other’s kisses, closing his eyes as the blue-eyed blond’s lips traveled from his mouth down to his chin and along his jaw line. He didn’t mind Francis’s sudden will to devour, light fingers finding purchase on the man’s shoulders like a soft, absent caress. And Francis would have normally expected, demanded even that his passion be reciprocated, yet now he was pleased and content with just this, this wonderful, mysterious young man giving himself numbly, merely allowing his touches, letting him do all the work.

The was a light bruise on the side of the Englishman’s neck – where he had been bitten earlier – and it was rather baffling how quickly it had faded, how there was no puncture mark on the pale skin, but he chose not to question it, not to look for answers, because Arthur Kirkland was his now, his for the taking and in that moment he was no more than an addict getting his fix. His mouth only parted with his partner’s skin for the time needed to pull off the loose undershirt, before continuing its exploration down the smooth chest. Slowly, uncharacteristically gently, he turned around laying Arthur down onto the mattress.

And then he stopped – as amazing as this opportunity seemed to be and how worked up he’d already gotten, Francis would still rather not have made a regrettable goof. Also, what if his lover was still sore from earlier?

“Arthur, _mon lapin_ , are you sure about this?”

The other scowled at the sudden nickname, then the green eyes half-opened, their gaze hard to read. “Can you make it good, _frog_?”

“ _Oui_ , I can make it good,” the blue-eyed blond murmured, nipping the pale neck on the sensitive spot just below the ear. 

Kirkland smiled lazily, teeth digging slightly in the bottom lip and his fingers gently pushing a rebel strand away from his partner’s eyes. “Then make it good.”

Their lips met again, even more heated after the ‘challenge’ had been made and the Frenchman’s hands roamed down Arthur’s skin with more confidence. He wondered even more at the other’s body – it was so supple and soft, almost like a teen’s – and it somehow, in a strange, inexplicable way, felt forbidden and sinful in consequence.

Blindly, Francis stretched and reached out to fumble in the bedside drawer where he’d stashed some yet unopened supplies for a very, very vague ‘just in case’ while with the other hand he clawed off the remainder of both their clothing. Arthur gasped sensually when he was pulled lower on the bed and one knee lifted and pressed against his chest, but very soon adjusted and fell into the other’s rhythm of movement.

“Mmmm…hah… just, mhh Francis, please,” he moaned, fingers digging into the other’s back as he was worked. “Please… I need- hah… just… bite me…”

The Frenchman hummed in agreement, lips moving over a tender spot on the side of his lover’s neck and sinking his teeth in as hard as he could, enough to elicit a grunt of slight discomfort. But well, if his _lapin_ had an openly expressed biting fetish, he might just as well mark him as his. He quickly licked the sore flesh then moved his mouth lower and bit again and this time Arthur cried out, his whole body arching up and tensing as he was sent over the edge.

Shortly afterwards, panting and sweaty, the two of them relaxed slowly, bodies still pressed against each other, the green-eyed detective burying his nose into Francis’s shoulder.

“Francis… I need you…” he murmured faintly, like an afterthought, just before falling asleep.

* * *

 

With a low groan, the French detective shifted between the covers, instinctively shielding his eyes with his arm from the crude morning light (it was a pain that he kept forgetting to at least pull the thin curtains over the large window). And then, brusquely, the events of the previous night came crashing down on him like a load of bricks and he froze, very nearly holding his breath. Slowly, he turned his head, expecting he would find the Englishman sleeping next to him between the creased sheets. Reluctantly and taken by an uncharacteristic shyness, he shifted again to look, but the bed was empty. A heavy sigh leaving his chest, he propped himself up on his elbows and glanced thoughtfully towards the bedroom door, which someone had left ajar.

There was a faint sound of voices coming from below which got him vaguely curious, so Francis sat up and fished his trousers off the floor, sliding them on. His muscles ached a bit at the movement, but it was a pleasant ache, the kind which came with being physically sated. Stretching lazily, the blond walked up to the door and past it, venturing into the hallway to see what was going on.

 But very soon the Frenchman halted in his steps, glancing down suddenly as he felt something wet under his bare feet. And indeed, the hallway carpet was soaked with the water overflowing from Kirkland’s bathroom. Damn these old houses with _merde_ plumbing, he thought. Hushed voices were coming from below again and the detective leaned over the railing, noticing his partner standing at the bottom of the stairs in the same outfit as the night before, the Scottish fold in his arms. And for some unknown reason Arthur looked scared, clutching the cat as if his life depended on the small animal.

“Just what the hell am I supposed to do?!” he asked, a little louder, gaze fixed upwards towards the top of the stairs. Only there was nothing there but his own open bedroom door.

“Well, I’ll mop up all this mess and you could… call a plumber?” Sylvia said and glancing at the pale brunette Francis had the odd feeling that she was in fact the girl he’d seen with Arthur the night before at the brothel.

The one who’d been biting into the Englishman’s wrist and drinking his blood, that was. The thought sent chills down the blond’s spine – so this meant his partner was indeed screwing his maid? And if so, how did that make _him_ feel, in the light of recent developments? He wasn’t sure it made him feel in any particular way, the two did not appear to have anything more than a ‘professional’ relationship, whatever the hell that was…

“Please, you have to stay here tonight,” Arthur was saying, chewing nervously on his bottom lip.

“You know I won’t. I have other things to do, anyway.”

“But he was here, that bloody ghost!” Kirkland insisted. “And he’ll come again! What if he comes again?! Just what the hell am I supposed to do if he comes again?”

The maid rolled her eyes. “He won’t. Besides, you’re not alone anymore, the Frenchman is here now. “

“Exactly! What do you think Bonnefoy will say if he sees a bloody pirate soaked in sea water walking out of the fucking wall?! It’s not like I can bloody explain to him that - what do you know - my house is haunted by one of my fucking ancestors! This isn’t something you can just _explain_ to regular people! I don’t even know if it’s safe…”

“He won’t come, Arthur,” Sylvia sighed. “Most ghosts don’t even show themselves to people other than those they’re actually haunting. And he’s haunting _you_. “She then said something more, leaning to whisper in the blond’s ear, clearly irritating the Englishman who turned on his heel and marched into the living room, slamming the door in his wake.

A confused smile played on Francis’s lips – this was surely odd, a funny sort of odd. Kirkland had told him he didn’t believe in any of the magical stuff Braginski seemed so into, but now he believed he had a ghost in the house? And there was something both amusing and endearing about his partner’s grumpy, passive-aggressive mood, something he felt compelled to soothe. 

Running a hand through his hair, the Frenchman descended down the wet steps, made his way into the kitchen and poured a steaming cup of the coffee the maid had prepared before heading towards the living room with as unsuspecting an air as he could fake.  Inside, Arthur was curled up on the sofa, knees held tightly against his chest, and he was sulking. Iggy lifted her head off her master’s thigh and looked up at him questioningly, but the smaller blond ignored him. Francis sighed, it had been a while since he’d had to handle the ‘morning after’ type of situation and from his experience it happened to be a little awkward at times (or more than just a little, on occasion). Not to mention, it had all happened completely unplanned and even un-thought of.

“Do you still have Dr. Zwingli’s number?” Arthur asked out of the blue, before his partner could say anything first.

Francis shrugged, a bit surprised, but nodded. “ _Oui_ , and I think he said something like we could call anytime-“

“Good. I want you to call him now and ask him something. Tell him that last night I got drunk, made a horrible mess and then I went and snapped the bath brush in two – which I did by the way – so you would like to know if it would be alright to withhold my slight anxiety medication as a punishment.” 

“Wha-…? I’m not going to ask him such a lunacy!”

“Bonnefoy, it’s not like he’s much of a normal person, so you might just as well ask him any lunacy you want,” the Englishman pointed dryly. “Do you remember the discussion about privilege removal from yesterday?”

The blue-eyed blond scowled. Was Arthur really that worked up about the case or was he using it to diffuse attention from the heated and possibly very inappropriate episode from the previous night? Whatever it was, he decided to go along with it and not stir or confront his partner about it.

“Yes, I do. But withholding medication does sound somewhat extreme, don’t you think? And I don’t recall it being mentioned on the list of removable privileges either…”

“That list was only providing a few examples,” the other detective replied. “Think about it, if the Head of Household is the sole provider, then everything the Taken in Hand gets is technically a privilege – food, clothes, utilities, so why not medication and healthcare? The website does mention phone privileges - what if the Taken in Hand has some emergency, medical or otherwise while being ‘punished’? They can’t make a call because they’re not allowed to use the bloody phone! So please, stop trying to make sense of this abusive bullshit.” 

Francis sighed, observing the smaller blond’s hunched and somewhat defensive posture. Damn, he _was_ taking this personally. But still, Arthur was right for the most part, there wasn’t much logic to be found in the situation. But there was more, it was as if Arthur knew something and for some reason he was reluctant to share it.

“I will make the call,” he conceded, “but I want to know what it is that you suspect first. We are supposed to be working together on this, remember?”

The Englishman looked away, pursing his mouth in a grimace which looked almost painful. “I’ve got an email from Kiku earlier with the autopsy report,” he grumbled. “Angelique Briggs died from a severe asthma crisis, that’s how she suffocated. There were also traces of lime flavored soap found on the back side of her teeth.” 

Francis let himself fall backwards against the armchair’s backrest, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If she had an asthma crisis it couldn’t have been out of the blue, _n’est ce pas_? She must have had asthma for a while… but we didn’t find an inhaler or any specific asthma medication among her personal belongings. Do you think Briggs took her inhaler or whatever medicine away as punishment? And where does the soap come from?”

“There is another kind of punishment which is – from what I gathered – quite used, yet it did not come up in the conversation yesterday, it’s called mouth soaping. And lime soap is apparently preferred because it tastes worse than other soap flavors…”  

Without warning, the Frenchman stood up, downing the remainder of his coffee with a brusque gesture, and stomped away to his bedroom to get his cell phone.

* * *

 

When he returned, phone still clutched numbly in his hand, all he could do was slump back into the armchair, taken by a burdensome feeling of defeat. It had taken all of Francis’s willpower to keep a light and civil conversation with the doctor who, as predicted by the Englishman, had fully agreed to his idea of withholding his partner’s medication as ‘privilege removal’.

“He said yes. Among… other stuff I could try.”

Arthur just sat there, sheet white in the face and hugging his knees like a helpless child, staring blankly at the carpet as tears had begun sliding down his cheeks. The sight brought down the full horror of the realization upon him – Briggs had lied to the police, he’d most likely given his wife a mouth soaping that night just before leaving for work, causing his medication deprived victim a deathly respiratory crisis. And it was mind-numbing to think that a young woman had died a horrible death at the hands of a cruel husband because of the twisted advice of some so-called ‘doctor’.

“We’re going to take Briggs in Monday morning,” the blue-eyed blond said conclusively. “And we’ll fucking squeeze him until he confesses. We’ll bring in Dr. Zwingli too.”

Kirkland said nothing, only nodded weakly, tiredly, fingers absently stroking his pet’s head. Francis stood up determined, then walked up to the sofa and gathered the smaller blond in his arms, lifting him up bridal style.

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Bonnefoy?!”

“Taking you back to bed, _mon petit lapin_. It’s _bloody_ Saturday.”

 ** _To be continued_**  


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! I am so grateful and happy for all the reviews/comments, favs and follows this story has gathered so far, I’m so glad you guys enjoy all the weird crap I’m writing. As for this story in particular, there are about four chaps left to go (including this one) as per my planning and the oddities will be piling up, so brace yourselves ;)) Anyway, I’ll stop ranting now and bring on the actual chapter!

* * *

 

Francis smiled fleetingly into his coffee, his thoughts still on the weekend which they’d spent mostly in bed, with long naps between sessions of lazy love-making, where he’d thoroughly explored and enjoyed his partner’s body. And in the morning he’d had the most pleasant waking up to a soft purr – Iggy had had enough of her master’s absence and had snuck into the Frenchman’s bedroom, wasting no time in cuddling up with the two of them between the sheets. 

But now it was Monday again, he reminded himself while adopting a somber countenance again, more appropriate to the tense atmosphere of the interrogation room. Harvey Briggs’s large hands were clasped tightly on the hard table, bony fingers awkwardly gripping the clammy flesh and toying with the wedding ring he still had on. When Kirkland had just sat down in front of the man and described that fateful night’s events in disturbingly clear details (and even Francis had been amazed upon hearing it, it almost sounded as if the Englishman had been there, witnessing it all), his face had turned white with the sheer horror of having been discovered and eventually had not dared denying anything.

“And still this is absurd… just… you’re simply twisting everything,” was the only thing the man said in his defense. “I _loved_ my wife!”     

“Mr. Briggs, you treated your wife worse than most people treat their dogs,” Braginski told him calmly.

The door opened brusquely, breaking the evil spell and officer Vargas poked his head inside, his impatient gaze trailing quickly from Francis to Arthur and back. “We got Dr. Zwingli down in room 5, so whenever you’re done here he’s all yours.”

Kirkland looked briefly at the massive Russian seated on the other side of the table and received a small nod. “We’re quite done here, we’re going to see him right away.”

“Arthur.”

Francis had paused in the corridor, reaching to touch the smaller blond’s shoulder and making him halt in his steps.

“What?”

The blue-eyed detective sighed – he really was an idiot and hadn’t learned anything from his countless previous flings if he’d been naïve to think that some time pleasantly spent between the sheets was enough to bring _real_ intimacy between people – the other detective was back in his usual passive-aggressive mode and he was probably going to go in and rip the doctor’s head off regardless of anything Francis would say.

“I don’t think we’ll get anything out of him, that’s all. Not to mention, we deceived him.”

“Oh, dear Lord, we _deceived_ the poor fellow! Guilt coils in my guts like a poisonous snake!” The green-eyed detective rolled his eyes, one hand pressed to his chest dramatically. After which he proceeded to mumble something about people needing to grow the hell up.

“He won’t take it well. And he’ll try to use it against us, too.”

* * *

 

_“Well, that’s surely one interesting way of starting someone’s week,” Dr. Zwingli said sarcastically. “And I didn’t expect to be seeing you two either. Mind telling me what this is all about? Because it looks like you’ve been dishonest with me! Are you trying to-”_

_“Mr. Zwingli, have you ever provided marital counsel to a Mr. Harvey Briggs and his wife?” Francis interrupted sternly, before the doctor would say something to get his partner worked up even more._

_The man blinked, watching the two detectives cautiously. “I might have, I don’t know the names of all my patients by heart. Why?”_

_“Well, we just wanted you to know about the extreme effectiveness of the methods you prescribed,” Arthur replied dryly. “How was it – ‘to progress on the path towards righteousness and peace’? See, we can’t be sure if Angelique Briggs found righteousness, but she sure found peace. She’s dead, Mr. Zwingli.”_

_The doctor paled. “Dead?”_

_“Yes. She was suffering from a severe form of asthma and we would like to know if it was you who advised her husband to withhold her medication and healthcare. Because he already confessed to it.”_  

In retrospective, Francis had known that confronting the doctor would not be as fruitful as it had been with the husband. Zwingli was a far tougher nut to crack and they had basically nothing on him. For now they were stuck with writing the reports and filling in all the paperwork, still waiting for the results, and something odd was up with Kirkland. As the progress of things was to be guessed though, he’d been silently furious in the first couple of days and hadn’t even bothered to join his partner for dinner in the evenings, instead disappearing without a word.

But that morning Francis had woken up to find Arthur (and the cat) snuggled up against him in bed as if nothing had happened and the Englishman looked peculiarly relaxed for some reason. Of course, the joyous mood had partially gone to shit at breakfast when Mr. Edelstein had pounded on their door yelling something about broken phallic symbols and father issues – it turned out that he’d been rummaging through their garbage and discovered the two halves of Kirkland’s bath brush – and Francis hadn’t known whether to laugh or worry.  

“Hey guys!”

The voice of Chief Inspector Jones broke into his musings, cutting them short as his gaze was instantly drawn to the piece of paper in the man’s hand. The younger’s bright blue eyes swept over the two detectives over the rim of his spectacles as he leaned in the doorframe, clearing his throat.

“I thought you might wanna know what the judge decided – Briggs is going down at the deep end as we knew he would, but… um… I’m afraid Dr. fifty shades of fucked-up is gonna walk. He’ll lose his practice license but that’s about it. So, yeah… Not much of a surprise though, after all we didn’t have shit on him. There’s no way we can prove he told Briggs to deprive his wife of medication and stuff.”

“Oh. Jolly good,” was the only thing Arthur said, eyes still glued to the screen and the report he was typing on.

Francis expected the Chief Inspector to turn around on his heels and walk away leaving some biting remark aimed at the Englishman in his wake, but Jones lingered, observing Kirkland curiously for a moment before speaking again.

“By the way, the doctor just filed a complaint – it seems that yesterday he was attacked in his very office and beaten bloody.”

“What?! By whom?”

“He says some kids barged into his office out of the blue, but it’s hella weird because the receptionist never saw anyone and she couldn’t have been, like, gone to the bathroom for more than five minutes and also nothing came up on the hallway surveillance cams footage.”

The Frenchman frowned. “But then… it can’t be. Unless there’s some other way into his office?”

“There isn’t. That bloody arse has probably done it to himself to look like he’s a victim in this whole affair,” Arthur grumbled under his breath.

“There’s no indication he could have inflicted that sort of damage onto himself actually,” Jones clarified. “Someone must have done it and he says there were two kids, a boy and a girl. But when he was asked to describe them all he could say was that they were ‘very beautiful and sexy’”.

Kirkland rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. The man is bloody mental! And karma is a bitch. Have Vargas look into it, see if he can work with that sort of description.”

The Chief Inspector shook his head, shrugged and walked away, but the words lingered in Francis’s mind along with a cold needle of suspicion thrust in his gut. _Two kids, a boy and a girl, very beautiful and sexy._ Inhumanly so, he mentally added, recalling the scene he’d witnessed not long before. Could Arthur really have something to do with what had happened to Dr. Zwingli? Things added up in a strange fashion, like pieces of a fantastic puzzle and once more he got that eerie, slightly frightening feeling that he didn’t know Arthur Kirkland at all.

* * *

 

But if Francis had thought he’d already been through the week’s share of oddities he’d been sourly mistaken, the blue-eyed blond concluded as he stood there half dumbstruck, eyeing the file opened on Braginski’s desk. The Russian was sitting in his chair, with the same impenetrable expression as always, explaining the case of a young widow who was being constantly assaulted by the ghost of her dead husband because she’d gotten a boyfriend. He’d even thought everything was some sort of joke.  

“I hope you’ve taken the time to go through the books I gave you, da,” the Chief Detective said. “Either way, I want you two to go to Mrs. McGregor’s house and watch over her tonight. We should at least ascertain whether what she claims is true or not.”

Kirkland huffed, but did not make any objection to what his superior was saying. “Come on, Bonnefoy, might as well pull yourself together, we don’t have all day,” he grumbled ill-humoredly. “We do have all night though.” 

* * *

 

“You don’t really think there’s a ghost, do you?”

Francis just had to ask, even though he’d overheard the funny ghost talk between the Englishman and his creepy Goth maid. Still, the creepy Goth maid was one thing, police work was quite another (he hoped). But Braginski had spoken of it as calmly and naturally as if he were talking about the weather and now Kirkland sat in the passenger seat with a blunt face, yet without expressing any disagreement with what they’d just been told.

“Mrs. McGregor seems to think there is one, otherwise why would she come up with something as crazy as that?”

“ _Oui_ , everyone is saying crazy things these days. By the way, Vargas and Carriedo have gotten nowhere with the story of Dr. Zwingli’s attack – he’s unable to describe the two kids, even though they weren’t wearing masks or anything. Also, turns out they just popped in there or something, because he didn’t see the door open. But there has to be a logical explanation, _non_?”

Arthur pursed his mouth in a funny way. “Maybe there is. Maybe he’s reported the whole thing because the receptionist found him like that and he had to do something. Maybe there really were two kids who snuck up in his office in some clever way but he _doesn’t want_ to describe them because he doesn’t want them found. Indeed, maybe he doesn’t want the police to find the kids and more importantly _the reason_ why they beat him bloody.”  

* * *

 

Francis gave the front of the simple, unpretentious brick house a thoughtful glance. It looked well-kept but fairly old too and perhaps, if it had the same sort of old stuff in it as their brown-house it wouldn’t have been unlikely for Mrs. McGregor to be under the impression that the place was haunted, especially after her spouse’s death. Maybe she felt guilty for replacing him too soon?

But then the door opened and a petite blonde woman, still young and quite pretty, invited the two detectives inside. The Frenchman noted that there was a fading bruise on the side of her face, just below the cheekbone, visible even under the layer of make-up, and that she walked with a slight limp.

“So, Mrs. McGregor, would you care to tell us about your husband?” Arthur asked, gracefully accepting the dainty cup of tea she had offered. Francis decided upon skipping the small talk for now, instead observing their surroundings. The family seemed well-to-do and perhaps someone other than some ‘ghost’ might have had reasons to hurt the widow.

“He used to be dreadfully jealous and wouldn’t bear to see me as much as smile to another man,” she confessed, averting her gaze awkwardly. ”And before he died, well… he made me promise that there wouldn’t be another…”

“But you didn’t stick to your promise and so he didn’t stick to the ‘until death do us part’, is that right?”

The blonde bit her pale lip, setting her cup down slowly. “Well… it does sound rather dishonest of me, doesn’t it?”

“No more than it was selfish of your husband to ask you to spend the rest of your life alone,” Kirkland pointed with a reassuring smile.

 Mrs. McGregor managed a small smile back, before the worried frown crept back onto her face and her eyes swept inquisitively over the two men seated on the sofa in front of her. Francis’s gaze wandered awkwardly around the living room as he felt beyond weird, fighting increasing perplexity at the situation and still refusing to accept that they were sitting here talking about ghosts like it was something normal people spoke of all the time. It was as if he’d stumbled into Mad Hatter’s tea party.  

“… so do you suppose that if I were to kiss you now, it would make Mr. McGregor manifest himself? It’s getting dark already and you did state that he is usually coming at night.”

The blue-eyed blond snapped to attention at the word ‘kiss’, staring at his partner in confusion. Had Arthur actually suggested _kissing_ the woman? A pang of jealousy stabbed him in the gut at the mere thought of it, although it probably was ridiculous. But it couldn’t be very well ignored that Kirkland did kiss other people and it irked him, he rather wanted the Englishman all to himself.

“Well I never… brought my boyfriend to the house and my late husband never showed up elsewhere but here. So he’s only ever attacked me. But then again, he blames me for everything, I suppose,” Mrs. McGregor replied. “Yet, I wouldn’t think it wise to do anything which might put you in danger.”

“Mrs. McGregor, if we were _afraid_ we wouldn’t be here,” Francis said sternly. “But we’re not, and furthermore we are here to protect you. If your husband shows up, we will deal with him. Though it’s not necessary that he might fall for a trick of sorts…”

Arthur scowled slightly, giving him an inquisitive glance, then shrugged and rolled his eyes discreetly, as if saying ‘might as well get on with it’. “Right then, so let’s make it not a trick,” he stated bluntly, rising from his seat and walking around the coffee table, only to plop on the opposing sofa, next to the widow. “Mrs. McGregor, you’re an attractive woman and I want to kiss you, whether you like it or not,” the detective added, grabbing the blonde’s wrist without warning, to pull her closer.

Her eyes widened in shock, yet her features softened, lids dropping and pink lips parting to let out a shaky breath, and she did nothing to free her hand from the Englishman’s grip. Kirkland smirked impishly as his fingers rose to the widow’s face to cup it gently, his thumb stroking the side of her cheek.

“YOU FILTHY SLUT!”

Francis turned abruptly in his seat in the same time Mrs. McGregor let out a shriek, pulling away from the other detective and burying her face in her hands. “It’s him! It’s James! Oh, God!” she sobbed.

The man standing in the doorframe was massive and the viciousness on his otherwise chiseled features was disturbing, all the more since he was wearing an elegant black suit and his graying hair was neatly slicked back. And he didn’t look like a ghost at all.

The Frenchman stood instantly. “Sir, we were told you were dead-“ he began, but the giant ignored him completely, gaze fixed on his wife.

“You filthy, fucking slut! How dared you! With _him_ of all people!”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Sir, hold it right there!”

Francis only registered that there was something wrong with the picture when Mr. McGregor literally _walked through_ a small stool which was placed in his way, before strong fingers gripped his throat and he wasn’t even able to get a hold of the arm attached to them.  

“Release him.”

“To be honest, I kind of figured that my whore of a wife would send for _you_ , Arthur Kirkland,” the ghost spat. “But don’t think I’ll go down without a fight and you’ll emerge unscathed out of this! After all, I should at least be allowed a few words before I’m sent permanently from this world, not that it would have been bad to break some more of that bitch’s bones before I went.”

The green-eyed blond scowled, crossing his arms as he stood motionless, with a blunt expression. “Well?”

“Maybe this fine man you’re currently screwing would like to know that you’ve got sorcerer blood in you and that you solve your cases so brilliantly with the help of your two incubi familiars, who you’re also screwing rather regularly. And he should know what I’m talking about, one of them is your maid! Oh, and that you’re only fucking him because you’re afraid to sleep alone, seeing how there is one ghost you can’t actually get rid of! Hahahaha!”

Francis stared from his spot on the floor, where the ghost had dropped him in a heap, and saw Arthur’s shocked look, lips parted and jaw set, before turning into pure rage as the Englishman hurriedly dug in his pocket and pulled out an ancient looking fountain pen. 

“But now that I think of it, there’s something to be said about you too, _monsieur_ Bonnefoy,” McGregor went on. “Maybe it should be made known that you actually paid to watch-“

“That’s enough!” Arthur shouted, lunging forward and pressing his palm (how was that possible in the first place?) onto the man’s forehead, a mixture of red blood and dark blue ink from the wound he’d made himself running down the ghost’s skin.

* * *

 

The awkward silence was stretching uncomfortably long, but the blue-eyed detective could momentarily do nothing more than sit numbly behind the wheel, still pretty much in shock after everything they’d been through. Because the truth was that never, for a single moment, had he actually _believed_ they were after an actual ghost. Until things had suddenly become as real as hell.

“Bastard! The last thing I needed was some stupid malevolent ghost talking crap about me!” Arthur grumbled eventually, bringing his injured hand up to his mouth to suck on the wound. There was something oddly sensual and barbaric in the same time about the gesture and his partner drew in a sharp breath, wondering just how much under this man’s spell was he really.

“But is it true, what he said? Are you a sorcerer, Arthur?”

The question was pretty much useless – Arthur had been using a spell to send the ghost over and Francis had seen Sylvia and that boy drink Arthur’s blood, along with doing other things which weren’t exactly humanly possible. But he wanted to see if at least the Englishman would bother to tell him the truth.

“I know what you’re _really_ asking, Bonnefoy… And no, I couldn’t have bloody told you, alright? You would have never believed me! And it’s not like I have a… a cauldron or a pointy hat, or a flying broomstick!“ Kirkland took a deep breath and scrubbed his good hand over his face, exasperated. “And… not everything that sod said was true anyway! I’m not afraid to sleep alone…”

Francis nodded slowly before resting his forehead against the wheel, feeling exhausted.

“Arthur… did you send your incubi familiars to beat the hell out of Dr. Zwingli?”

 ** _To be continued_**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER 9**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! As I was revising the chapters summary for this story, I happened to make some adjustments to the plot, so as to focus on the main thing and not keep everyone waiting with unnecessary details. Thus, there will only be one more chapter aside from this one, but it will be ‘ze absolute best’ and will bring around a turn of events you’re probably not expecting, ohon hon hon hon ;)

* * *

 

Arthur chewed his bottom lip, staring ahead as the Frenchman eventually decided to start the engine and drive them away from Mrs. McGregor’s house. An answer was due and the atmosphere was all the sudden horribly tense.

“Look, Francis, I know that the bastard ghost made it all sound… rather dreadful. And I don’t know how I could explain to you the exact manner in which, as he put it, my incubi familiars help me solve my cases, especially murder cases. The thing is that they have the power to bring me into a state in which I can have _visions_ … and see what actually happened. From there I can work backward to proving it, because I know what evidence to look for. The incubi don’t do it for free, obviously, they require payment – in the form of blood and sexual energy…”

Francis said nothing in reply. How could he? It was all so messed up! Evidently this was why Braginski had asked him to keep an open mind about things as much as possible, and his whole incubi affair must have been the ‘stimulant’ he was suspecting when referring to the Englishman’s ability to solve difficult cases. And it _was_ working too.

“I saw what happened that night,” Arthur went on, in a lower voice. “She was begging, Bonnefoy! She was feeling ill but that beast wouldn’t listen, he thought she was just giving him _an attitude_ , like that bastard doctor said, and Heaven forbid that the man of the house should let that slide!” He paused, drawing a sharp breath. “That shit of a man went all white in the face when we told him Mrs. Briggs was dead, but it was only because he was worrying for his own arse, never for a single moment did he actually question his own preaching! And yes, if you must know, I did send my incubi familiars to beat him up, because he just got away with it and it’s not fair, it’s not bloody fair!”  

Francis allowed himself a moment to let his lids drop, even if he was still driving. Now he understood why Arthur had been in such a state that Saturday and why he’d gotten so worked up about the case. He didn’t even want to think about how it would have been to witness murders firsthand and be completely helpless about it.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I wish…” He didn’t go on to say ‘you could have told me about it’, because it wouldn’t have been possible and he was aware of it. And maybe now that everything – or the most part of it – was out in the open he might as well come clean about his share of stuff. “I must tell you that Chief Detective Braginski is suspicious of your unusual proficiency. In fact, he did tell me that I should keep an eye on you and maybe get to the bottom of this…”  

The Englishman didn’t show the slightest surprise. “I assumed that much. And if you want to tell him the whole truth about it… well, just know he won’t _just_ arrest me for dealing with demons. He will hunt me down like we did that ghost and he’d be right to do it, too.”

By then they had arrived back at the brownhouse and Kirkland got out of the car without another word or glance to his partner – but looking openly morose and even defeated – and walked inside. Francis took a few moments resting his head against the wheel, pondering on what to do next. Of course, he couldn’t really think of telling Braginski anything – he couldn’t betray Arthur, even if he was more clueless than ever as to where the two of them stood momentarily.

At length the blue-eyed blond made his way inside, picking up Iggy in the parlor as he went. Stroking the soft fur had a welcoming calming effect and the small Scottish fold purred softly, curled up in his arms. Kirkland was slumped into an armchair in the living, his tie loosened, hair disheveled and a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Arthur… I won’t say a word to anyone about this,” the French detective said tiredly.”And I don’t think anyone could blame you for doing whatever you had to do to solve murder cases and bring criminals to justice. I surely don’t blame you. If anything, you’re trying a bit too hard… And I suppose you’re right about the doctor; you gave him what he deserved, so we’ll leave it at that.”

His partner’s green eyes looked up at him both sad and hopeful. “Then it’s settled,” the smaller blond said, downing the rest of his drink.

“Indeed, _this_ is settled,” Francis agreed. “What about the rest though…?”

Arthur tsked. “The rest is very straightforward, really. _I’m not_ afraid to sleep alone, and I’ll have you know that I have been sleeping alone for a while now. That’s not why I shared the bed with you. I did it because… well frankly because I genuinely like you. ”

The Frenchman hid a smile and simply nodded in reply. As much as he wanted to relish in what he’d just heard, there was more which needed to be clarified and besides, now there was that lingering feeling that he wasn’t being told everything, that his partner had been keeping a lot from him and still partially did.

“What about the ghost? Mr. McGregor seemed to suggest that you’re being personally haunted as well.” He saw Arthur’s eyes widening slightly in surprise, then look away quickly, but decided to go on. “Is this house haunted by any chance? Looks like a fitting place, if I’m to be honest.”

Kirkland chewed on his lip again, then proceeded to scratch his head. “Well, I suppose… you could say there is one. But there’s nothing you should worry about, like that fellow said, they’re haunting _me_.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he kept his gaze fixed onto the empty glass. “It’s an ancestor of my family, he was executed for piracy. Drowned, more precisely. And now he shows up from time to time, especially when he thinks I’m failing to fulfill the family duty. He has been haunting us for a very long time, because we must all right the wrongs of his life by doing the right thing. This is why, among other things, that I took on this crap police job and wear these horrid, _proper_ clothes, in case you were wondering…”

Francis blinked, on the edge of being perplexed. He really didn’t know what to say.

“It’s alright, I’ll understand if all this bollocks is too much for you… and if you’ll want to… leave me.”

The blue-eyed blond gasped, then ran a hand through his hair exasperated, making a few rebel strands fall loose from his ponytail. “’If this is too much for me’? Wouldn’t it be too much for _anyone_ , Arthur?! But still, you say that you really like me, yet you are ready to give up so easily! To give everything up so easily!”

“I don’t want to give up, Bonnefoy, but what choice do you think I have?” the Englishman asked tiredly. “I cannot simply ask you to put up with all this rubbish as if it were nothing. It’s not fair, you haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“And have you?”

“Well, he’s my ancestor. I was born in this family. There’s no way of fighting it, or avoiding it, or-…. Just like I can’t ignore my magic gift either.”

“I don’t care.”

Francis put the cat down and walked determinedly towards the armchair, in the same way he’d done in that accursed Saturday, and picked the green-eyed blond up bridal style. Arthur’s empty glass fell from his hand in surprise and tumbled down onto the carpet, ignored.  

“What the bloody hell are you doing?! Put me down you silly frog!”

* * *

 

Teasing lips moved slowly along the Englishman’s jaw, leaving butterfly kisses in their wake, while Francis’s hand lazily trailed the side of his lover’s body, following the contour of his slim shape.

“Arthur, tell me something about you,” he murmured against the other’s soft skin.

“About me?”

The blue-eyed detective nuzzled his neck and his teeth nipped at the soft flesh. “Yes. Something really, really personal. Like… the most embarrassing moment of your life.” The thought alone made him snicker, no way in hell would Kirkland open up about something like that. And if he actually did, it meant that he was indeed in the sorcerer’s good graces. “Can you tell me? Do you even remember it?”

“Oh, I remember it alright,” the other said dryly. “As clear as if it were yesterday…”

Francis chuckled some more at the tone. “You can tell me, I swear no to pass it on.”

“Well, I was in school back then, and they’d given us these awful hats to wear, I absolutely hated them. One day, at the end of classes, I was going down the school’s main staircase, along with everyone else, when suddenly I tripped and fell on all fours, the stupid hat flew off my head, landed on the ground where someone stepped on it, and a fat sod who was right behind me said…” Arthur paused, closing his eyes and scrunching up his face. “He said ‘I don’t like this position’. And everyone started to laugh…”

“Oh, _mon pauvre petit lapin_ … Is he still alive, I wonder? The fat sod who’d said such a dreadful thing?”

The green-eyed blond rolled onto his side, tapping his nose. “Yes. Believe it or not, I don’t actually hold such a grudge against the fellow.” Which meant _he did_ keep a grudge, be the soft sort as it may have been.

It wasn’t long before Francis could hear Arthur breathing regularly, still curled up in his arms, enveloped in his warm, protective embrace even after the sweat of their love-making had dried up on their bare skin. He liked their mingled scent, such a soft musky flavor, both sophisticated and primal, it spoke of passion shared and love surrendered, and in truth it was nothing he’d ever thought he’d experience, making all past memories of other lovers fade into oblivion.

His own eyelids were heavy with sleep and the Frenchman settled better between the sheets, one ear buried into the fluffy pillow, only to nearly jump out of his skin a moment later, when the bedroom door was cracked open with a sinister creak. Francis broke into a cold sweat – this really was the last thing he needed after all the stuff he’d come to learn that day – and there could only be one _person_ visiting in this manner, only one who could make the temperature in the room drop by several degrees all the sudden and bring about the breath of death itself over their peaceful slumber. Hell, now he even regretted the absence of the incubus maid!

His first thought was of waking Arthur, but then he realised that the poor man was as helpless as he and it would have only disturbed his rest. No, if he could spare the Englishman of this one moment of horror, he would. Drawing a shaky breath, Francis willed himself to open his eyes, just in time to see the specter melt into thin air like a twirl of smoke.

**_To be continued_ **

**A/N – Yep, the ghost isn’t happy about the progress of things, but then again if he were happy on a general note he wouldn’t be haunting people in the first place, right? Gah!**


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

A/N – Hello everyone! I have to say, I’m so excited by this and also endlessly grateful to you all for the wonderful support you’ve given to this story along the way. It means so much to me!  And now the time has come for the final chapter, which will be a little longer than the rest such as to fit the climax of things, and I hope you will enjoy it at least as much as I have enjoyed writing it ;)

**_Warning: major character death and some hot action ahead, exactly in this order_ **

* * *

 

Francis stood just a step away from the bedroom doorframe, where he’d stopped upon observing the incubus maid from downstairs. There was a sort of awed scowl on the brunette’s face as she was motionlessly watching something up the stairs. He genuinely wondered what could amaze a creature of demonic nature of such extent, and soon discovered it himself – there was a trail of dark, long sea weeds leading from Arthur’s bedroom door all the way down the steps.     

“ _Mademoiselle_ Sylvia…”

The red eyes broke their focus and looked up to him, questioningly. “Then… you’ve seen _him_ too, Mr. Bonnefoy?” she asked, blinking. “The ghost? He was here?”  

The blond nodded. That bloodcurdling presence from the night before was something he would probably not forget too soon, if ever.

“Right… “The maid shrugged awkwardly, motioning towards the stairs. “I’ll… I’ll clean this up.”

“No, wait!” Francis pleaded as she was turning to head below the staircase. He descended quickly, mindful not to touch the awful, disgustingly wet things sprawled onto the steps with his bare feet. “Please, help me! I need to know how to get rid of him, before he does anything to… to hurt Arthur! Please…” He didn’t say ‘I know what you are’ or any unnecessary, uncomfortable words. She would understand regardless.

Sylvia sighed. “I don’t know how… I suppose the ghost wants something? All ghosts do, that’s why they linger in this world.”

“I know, and Arthur says that the ghost wants him to live his life in service of the greater good and do the right thing and whatever, but he’s already been doing all that! So why does _he_ still come?!”

“What’s going on?”

They both looked up in the same time and discovered the Englishman standing on top of the stairs with a questioning scowl, and Francis quickly withdrew the hand he hadn’t even realised he’d laid on the girl’s shoulder, in a unconscious fear that she would just walk away. 

But Arthur wasn’t looking at him anymore, he’d already seen the dark weeds and his expression had morphed into one of pure horror as he stared, lips parted slightly. Then the green-eyed blond shook his head, clenching his fists, and marched into his own bedroom, slamming the door shut in his wake. 

“Do you think this is because of… because of me?” Well, he had to ask.

“No, I don’t think it’s because of any of _us_ ,” the brunette answered with unexpected openness. “The ghost has been in master’s family for generations, and none of them – as far as it is known – has ever had demon _familiars_ or has slept with a man before. Yet the ghost still didn’t give them a break, so this can’t be it. Somewhere along the way they must have misinterpreted what that man’s soul wants.”

* * *

 

“Arthur!”

The door was locked and there was no sound coming from the Englishman’s bedroom, just ominous silence. He wouldn’t even open it for Iggy’s insistent meowing and scratching.

“Please open the door, this is ridiculous!”

In the end Francis had enough of the tension and shoved his shoulder full force into the old, dry wood, making it give in. His partner was sitting on his unmade bed, facing the window with a blank stare.

“Arthur, you don’t have to-… I’m not scared, whatever this is, I’m okay, we’ll deal with it, I’m not going to leave you alone!” The Frenchman kneeled in front of the smaller blond, taking both his hands in his. “Please, Arthur, just say something!”

The other detective sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t anymore, Francis. Do you realise… that I never had a relationship before? With someone _human_ I mean, because I cannot drag anyone into my hell. As long as he’s here, breathing on the back of my neck, any attempt at a normal life is nothing but a lie.” He paused, licking his chapped lips and sniffing. “And I was wrong all along, because I misinterpreted what he wants.  The hell was my father thinking?! The man was a pirate, he was caught and executed for his crimes, for fuck’s sake! He doesn’t care whether I do the right thing or not, he is just pissed because he was caught and killed!”

The blue-eyed blond scowled, realizing that what his partner said made sense. “Then it can’t be fixed? Because no one can give his life back…”

“Not in the traditional way of fulfilling the deceased’s wish, no,” Arthur confirmed. “There is one spell I haven’t tried yet but… it’s very… well it might be rubbish.” He sighed, pushing himself off the mattress. “I’m going to take a bath, please go tell Sylvia that she can have the rest of the day off. I’ll take care of everything as soon as… as soon as I’ll feel like doing anything, really. And tell Braginski I’m sick or something, he won’t mind us skipping work after we dealt with that problem yesterday.”

Francis nodded, only half-convinced that everything was alright. Arthur was strangely calm and composed all the sudden, like someone who has finally come up with a plan and is hell-bent on seeing it done. Rather ominous, if he were to be completely honest. But in the end there was no point driving themselves up the wall over this issue – if Kirkland had lived with the ghost all his life it must have meant that the respective ancestor only sought to pester him in a harmless (albeit absolutely horrid) fashion.

* * *

 

As soon as his bathroom door was closed, leaving his lover on the other side, the Englishman’s face dropped and he fought back a loud sob which the other could have heard. It was so, so unfair! And he was so tired of this endless bollocks. He’d thought of this before, only it had never been worth the risk, or the plain disappointment if it wasn’t going to work. With faltering steps, he made his way to the sink and opened the small cupboard above, extracting an apparently misplaced jar. Sylvia had mopped the new seaweeds off the steps already and he wouldn’t go dig them out of the trash now, in plain sight, but fortunately he still had the rest of them, from the ghost’s previous apparitions, dried and minced properly.

Gulping, he unscrewed the lid of the jar and, while the bathtub was slowly filling with water, began pouring the seaweed powder in, murmuring a lengthy spell. Now, whatever would happen, it was worth it. Francis Bonnefoy was worth it.

* * *

 

As soon as he’d finished with the phone calls and all the rest, the French detective had gone to have a long, hot shower himself, only the moment he stepped out of it a dark premonition (the same one which had made him force the door and barge into Arthur’s bedroom earlier) seized him anew, even stronger. There was no sound (and hell, each and every fucking sound could normally be heard in this damned house!), what the hell could Kirkland be doing in his bath that was taking so long?

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt, he marched into the other bedroom, where Iggy was now dozing peacefully, curled up in the middle of her master’s bed. But the bathroom door was still closed and the light on.

“Arthur?” He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Instantly a cold shiver ran down his spine – was it possible that the Englishman had done something to hurt himself? _Dieu,_ he couldn’t stop thinking of the worst!  

The door was unlocked and the blue-eyed blond barged in, stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze fell on the bathtub. The water filling it to the brim and partially spilling over the edge was murky and seaweeds had grown in it, tangling around the arms, legs and neck of the body lying in the middle of the whole mess, just beneath the surface, sheet-white and light green eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“ARTHUR!!” he cried, plunging his arms in the bathtub and pulling the young man out. The soaked clothes he was still wearing were heavy, the weeds refused to release him and Francis desperately struggled to pull him out of the ice-cold water, eventually collapsing on the bathroom floor with his partner in his arms.

“Arthur, _s’il vous plait…_ Please no… Please don’t leave me!” His eyes filled with tears as he shook his head, refusing to accept the obvious truth – there was a corpse in his arms. The other was not breathing, he had no pulse and any trace of heat had already left his body. “Why?! God, why?!”

Francis didn’t know for how long he just sat there, weeping, with his face buried in Arthur’s damp hair, clutching his body to his chest.

“Don’t… hah… sque-hahghhhh…. squeeze me, gah! Fu-…fuck , gah! Fu.. the fuck happened?” The Frenchman flinched brusquely, just  before his lover’s body was shaken by a violent coughing fit. Arthur’s eyes looked up at him, bleary, while his fingers clutched the front of his shirt.

“ARTHUR! You’re alive! Oh _Dieu_! Oh, Lord, thank you!”

“He’s gone, Francis…” the smaller blond panted tiredly. “I can feel it. Gone…”

His lover continued to squeeze and rock him in his arms, kissing his hair, his forehead, his cheeks. “Shhh, it’s alright, it doesn’t matter! Nothing matters, except that you’re still here, with me. I think we should take you to bed now. _Mon Dieu_ , you gave me such a fright!”

But Arthur pulled away with unexpected energy and hauled himself up with a wry smile. “I-I’m fine, Francis. It was nothing. It’s done, he’s gone now. He won’t come back.”

“How can you say that?! A minute ago you were lying on the floor out cold, nearly… nearly gone! _Lapin_ , I know this is the stuff of magic, but are you sure we shouldn’t be taking you to the hospital?” the Frenchman cried, gripping the other’s thin frame and barely resisting the urge to shake him violently. “You’ve been in the water for quite a while, I think-“

But the green-eyed blond suddenly pressed a finger against his lips, with a strange gleam in his eyes. “No, Francis, I’m good. I want, I need something else, I need _you_ now…” he murmured, burrowing in the other’s arms and seeking his lips with his own. 

* * *

 

The next thing Francis knew was that they were back in Kirkland’s bedroom and he’d been backed against the wardrobe, Arthur devouring his mouth as he was also trying to shimmy out of his wet clothes.

“ _Lapin,_ are you sure we should-“

The Englishman pulled away briefly, but instantly jerked his head to the side, squinting. “Ah! C-Could you pull down the blinds, please? T-The light bothers me…”

The blue-eyed blond fulfilled his wish, albeit finding it rather weird, and turned to see his lover stretched on the bed, most of his clothing already off.  Impatient fingers clawed off the detective’s shirt and raked over bare shoulders and back. His belt flew into some corner of the room, very soon followed by his trousers and underwear and then Arthur pushed him flat on his back onto the mattress.

“Mmm… “ he said, brushing his lower lip against Francis’s chin. “You smell so good, Bonnefoy… soo good…” Lips traveled hungrily down the Frenchman’s neck, stopping to nip his collarbone and tease his nipples, then further down his toned abdomen. A skilled tongue delved into the crevice of his belly button and Arthur let out a throaty chuckle.  

Francis let his head fall back against the pillows as he relaxed completely, all the energy he’d woken up with pretty much spent after what he’d just been through. Numb, he heard himself moaning loudly when his lover took him in his mouth, the pleasure like an afterthought in his clouded mind. Soon, whatever was left of his reason dissolved in a blissful nothingness, he was just body, just shivering flesh and heated skin under the other’s fingers and lips.

Arthur sucked, licked and tried his pearly teeth on the sensitive skin, making it so good it almost hurt, only to pull away just when his partner was about to come.

“N-uh, uh, not… just… yet,” he chided playfully, sitting back on his legs to admire his work with a wide grin.

The green-eyed blond moved to straddle his hips, parting his thighs and practically impaling himself with a satisfied, almost feral cry. Francis watched in a daze that gorgeous young man moving on top of him, pushing him closer to the brink of absolute bliss with every roll of his hips. And then there was something else, blurring at the edge of his vision as his gaze trailed towards the ceiling, something like a black flutter.

“Francis….” Arthur moaned, lips suddenly against his throat and breath cool against the sheen of sweat on his skin. “I’m so… so… _hungry_!”  

And then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

 

Francis stared numbly at his own reflection in the cup of black coffee as he leaned on his elbows, his vision swimming slightly. Why was he so damn tired, and why this feeling that something was amiss? Knowing that he should have been happy – hell, everything had worked out in the end – but having something akin to a dark shadow hanging over his happiness, clouding it all to a dull shade of grey. 

“I’ve done it this time, haven’t I?”

The Frenchman rested his forehead against the closed door of the living room, eavesdropping on the half-whispered conversation Arthur was having with the maid. He’d surely been up early, doing God knew what.

“Master, if you love him then you have to tell him,” Sylvia was saying.

“I already told him everything. It’s already a miracle that he’s still here as it is. I can’t… surely you see this tops all the rest by far! If I tell him what really happened yesterday, he will bolt through the door screaming, and with a bit of luck he’ll tell Ivan Braginski too. And then we’re all screwed with a capital S!”

“But you cannot hope to conceal it and still be with him, it’s just not possible, Arthur. It’s just-”  

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Arthur?”

Francis leaned wearily on the doorframe, tilting his head curiously. Only he wasn’t really expectant, he half-guessed what he was about to hear. “I suppose that after everything that’s been said and done, you’re still going to leave me…”

The Englishman looked like a cornered animal. His lower lip trembled, as if he were fighting back tears threatening to spill at any moment. His nostrils flared slightly as he took a long, shaky breath, throwing one fleeting glance towards the maid.

“I don’t want… but _you_ will. You will leave me, and I won’t blame you. It’s… um… “Arthur paused, hoping the other would say something, anything, whether encouraging or quite the opposite, but the blue-eyed blond was silent, waiting. “I think I’d better show you. Sylvia, draw the curtains please, there’s too much light in here.”

The brunette moved swiftly to pull the heavy cloths over the glass, sinking the room into a soothing semi-obscurity, while the detective began unbuttoning his dress shirt with clumsy, nervous fingers. Once the white fabric was slid off his pale skin, Arthur straightened and rolled his shoulders, grimacing a bit in discomfort, as if something was wrong with his back. Then, a moment later, a pair of black, bat-like wings sprang from his shoulder blades, fluttering briefly before settling into place.  

_Mère de Dieu!_

Francis thought he had exclaimed those words out loud, but no sound had passed his lips. He blinked, _stared_ at the creature in front of him, so beautiful and so terrible, and genuinely wondered if the man he loved was still in there, somewhere. Eyes trailed in awe over the flawless, milky skin, the deep black velvet of those absurd appendages, coming to rest eventually on the familiar yet now foreign face and those peridot green eyes, shining with a surreal glow.

 _“_ I _-_ I’m not sure… w-what exactly you are _telling_ me right now,” the Frenchman stuttered, as soon as he regained control over his voice.

Arthur cleared his throat, wings folding awkwardly onto his back as he hunched, hugging his own upper arms. “Well, as you know, Francis, I was trying to get rid of the ghost, once and for all… and I did, uh… but the thing is… um… that _he_ ’s not gone because I did what he wanted – because I don’t think I knew or we’ll ever know what it was that he wanted – but because… uh… actually because I accidentally kicked the bucket. And consequently he cannot haunt someone who is no longer alive.”

“You accidentally kicked the-… you’re DEAD?!”

The smaller blond nodded, shrugging apologetically. “Francis, it’s not like I wanted-“

“ _Non, mais_ , you don’t look dead! You look…”

“The thing is that when someone allows incubi to feed off them regularly for long enough, after they die they become an incubus too,” Arthur explained so quickly that he nearly choked on his words. “But it’s something I rather chose to disregard, because it wasn’t a transition I was envisaging anytime soon… “

The blue-eyed detective slipped along the wall and plopped gingerly into an armchair, before he would collapse in an undignified heap on the floor. He needed something to drink, something really strong. Maybe some vodka? Speaking of which, Ivan Braginski would have probably been floored to hear that his best investigator was an _incubus_. A hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat at that particular thought, but he muffled it to a loud snort instead.                                 

“And you think… you think that now I’ll just up and leave you? Because you’re an incubus?”

Arthur took a shy step closer. “Um… actually, Francis, there are some implications to this. Uh… I’m not saying that it won’t be, um… safe, although, heh, last night… um… nevermind that. But in order for it to be safe, I will have to feed on other people. So, you do understand that under these circumstances I can’t exactly be, uh, faithful to you, yes?” 

Yes, he supposed that much. But still…

“Would it matter?” The Frenchman looked up almost pleadingly, reaching out to take one of his lover’s hands in his own and bring it to his cheek. “Would it mean anything if these fingers touched another’s skin, or your lips would kiss another’s lips but mine?” He kissed the inside of his partner’s cold palm, smooth and unexpectedly fragrant. “Would it mean that we don’t love each other?”

Arthur slipped in his lap silently and pressed their bodies closer, snuggling into warm, welcoming arms. He sighed softly and shook his head. “No. No one will matter to me but you,” he whispered, before leaning in to nibble onto his partner’s bottom lip, affectionately, as he cupped the other blond’s face with both hands.

“But Francis… Braginski had better not find out about this. He’s got some connects at the Vatican, and he WILL fry us.”   

 **THE END**  


End file.
